Internal Divisions
by HarleQueen21
Summary: What if the threat that Holmes and Watson believed they averted was not over, but only just beginning, with two new individuals creating an organization of high-ranking moles with infinite power? And when a central dynamic to their relationship changes, with dramatic and unforeseen consequences, how far will Watson go to protect those she loves? (Criticism/Advice appreciated :) )
1. Chapter 1

***Disclaimer: The majority of these characters, with the exception of Jane and Emilie, belong to Elementary, created by CBS. As does the series finale plot which this storyline follows, and the reference to the poem which Joan gave to Sherlock in the first series.

After the events of the previous few weeks, the silence which filled the world of Holmes and Watson seemed out of place, unnatural and far from comforting. Following Mycroft's departure, Sherlock and Joan had retreated to the brownstone. After remaining in her room and taking in recent events, as well as considering future ones, Joan calmly and confidently walked downstairs to join Sherlock. The rooms were dark and solemn, lighted only by a freshly lit fire and a couple of lamps which Joan had turned on upon entering the room and finding her friend sitting alone in what had been almost total darkness. Sherlock was reclining in his favourite worn leather armchair by the fire, his arms resting heavily upon the arms of the chair, hands clasped tightly, head bowed. Joan appeared, outwardly at least, to be more relaxed. She was seated on a sofa at the opposite end of the room, one leg resting elegantly upon the other, one arm resting against her stomach. When the silence finally became too oppressive and overbearing, she sighed deeply before turning sharply to Holmes.

"We need to talk about this. All of this." She spoke softly, leaning her head towards him as she spoke. "I know this is difficult for you, but there is a lot we need to address and now, finally, we have the time."

Sherlock appeared to be oblivious to her words, and was staring straight ahead, examining the curtains which adorned the large window, which was filled with darkness. It was only when Joan repeated his name twice that he seemed to emerge from his reverie.

"Time? The time, you... You think we have the time? Watson, it is only just beginning." He spoke quickly, much faster than usual, his face and his mood becoming more animated with each word. "You have been with me, done what I have done, experienced the realm of the consulting detective, for far too long to believe that this is truly over. It isn't." The last sentence came out harsher than he had intended, and he instantly regretted his temporary lack of control.

"Sherlock, we finally have a level of... of equilibrium. We were able to overcome the threat of Le Milieu, and you and your brother finally dealt with the worst case of sibling rivalry since Romulus and Remus. I know this is not over, in a way it never can be, but it is moments like this which we should savour, should celebrate. We can't waste them or underestimate them. We finally have a chance to discuss-" she broke off, the words catching in her throat. Sherlock seemed to spot her hesitance, and directed his gaze more markedly on her. "To talk about what happened. To me, to you, to us. You're right. Something else will come up, something which will demand our attention and draw us away from the issues we need to address. But that time is not now, and this time is the best opportunity for us to talk. And by talking, we can overcome the barriers between us which will, I'm sure you'll agree, ensure that we are best prepared to deal with future personal and professional responsibilities."

Sherlock's eyes drifted wearily to meet her own, before staring at the floor, the window, the curtains, and back to her. "You're right, Watson. Of course you are." He spoke gently, tiredly, and never once removing his gaze from hers. "But not tonight." His final words were low, hushed. He broke their mutual gaze to utter them, before staring once more at the floor, his eyes closed in quiet consideration.

Joan's patience and calmness had suddenly, and without previous warning, completely disintegrated. She could feel her heart beating faster and an uncomfortable, clenching sensation deep within her stomach. She could not bear this any longer. She breathed in deeply, the tears already forming in her eyes. She fought to keep them back, she did not want to cry in front of him, in front of anyone. Certainly not here, and most definitely not now.

"I don't think you understand-" she began in a calm tone.

"Understand?" he interrupted, his voice calm yet filled with sadness. "I understand that I trust you, Watson. That we have a fulfilling albeit complex working relationship which is now apparently coming to its end." He spoke without blinking, his focus remaining on the floor. "I also know that I meant all that I said to you earlier, about my feelings for you, for us."

"No, that's just it, I don't think you do." Joan rose from her seat and stared directly at him, causing him to look up from the floor and raise his gaze to meet hers. Her figure was framed by the dim illumination of one of the lamps which was poised behind her, giving her an almost ethereal glow as she spoke. "I feel the same about what we do as I always have, but-" she paused, struggling not simply to put her thoughts into words, but to put her needs into thoughts. "You don't understand. I'm not sure that you can, or ever will be able to." Her eyes glassed over with tears, and she blinked rapidly to subdue them, praying that Sherlock had not noticed them. "I'm just so tired. So exhausted. Numb. You aren't the only person who has been affected by all this." She breathed in heavily, in a vain attempt to calm her nerves.

Sherlock's gaze returned to the floor momentarily, before he pushed himself up from the armchair and stood to face her, the light from the fire glowing in the mere inches between them. "I'm sorry, Joan" he began, in as humble and sincere a tone as she had ever heard. Somehow, this affected her more than her own words. "I'm sorry." He reached out his hand and stroked her arm as he apologised, in as comforting a manner as he was able. She lifted her hand and placed it on top of his own, before turning her own gaze to the ground. "I know" she mumbled, before looking back up at him. Their eyes met, and their gaze held for what felt like an eternity. She seemed so completely saddened, lost. Sherlock wanted to comfort and care for her in any way he could, and to relieve her of this pain. He ran his hand down her arm once more, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt light, tingly, as though she were floating. "I know" she repeated, never breaking his gaze. Slowly, and very gently, he pulled her towards him, drew her face to his, and kissed her gently on the lips. She closed her eyes, exhaling, and returned the kiss, her hand cupping his cheek. The fire crackled in the background, and the lights continued to burn as Sherlock and Joan moved to the sofa, their kisses becoming more passionate, and more intense. He slowly lowered her until she was lying upon the sofa, where he joined her. After some time, they removed their clothing gently and with great care, before sleeping together for the first time. Joan fell asleep as they shared their final kiss of the night, and Sherlock drew her favourite thick white blanket across them as they slept, peacefully, side by side.


	2. Chapter 2

They lay side by side for hours, Sherlock's arm draped across Joan's waist. Neither stirred during the night, the exhaustion of the last few weeks and the events of the night before forcing them to surrender into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The fire and candles had long since extinguished themselves by the time Sherlock woke up, the light streaming through the window rousing him from his sleep. He adjusted himself carefully, disentangling himself from Joan and slowly rising from the sofa. The floor was cold and unwelcoming, a complete contrast to what he and Joan had just shared. He adjusted her blanket slightly, ensuring her body was completely covered. He placed a hand over his mouth as he took in the scene, and thought over what happened the night before. He remembered everything. Every look, touch, kiss. The memories of the night before were more sobering than he could have anticipated, and for the first time since the event he felt afraid – a deep, all-encompassing and consuming fear gripped him. He did not feel fear or the wish to repress what they had done, but he realised the likelihood that this would be the only time that they allowed themselves to falter so completely. He remembered Joan's words, her pain, and the fear once again overcame him. What would she think? Would she regret what happened? Would it add further distance to their already fragile relationship? He sighed, massaging his temples gently whilst watching her sleep. After a few moments he collected his clothes from the floor and retreated upstairs, uncertain of the best course of action, and the best way to show the woman he adored just how much she meant to him without risking her happiness and contentment.

Joan began to wake shortly after Sherlock left, the coldness left by his departure rousing her from her peaceful slumber. She placed a hand on her forehead, shielding her eyes whilst she adjusted to the new brightness of the room. It took her a few seconds longer to remember what happened the night before, and what led her to be lying, unclothed, on the worn red couch. She remained perfectly still for a few moments, trying to ascertain whether he was still in the room, still downstairs, still in the building. The sound of the shower broke her thoughts, and she sighed relievedly, knowing that she could return to her room minus the awkward landing-conversation which she feared. Joan drew the blanket closer to her chest, and hugged it to her waist. She breathed in deeply as she tried to collect her thoughts, and tried to remain calm. Unknown to both parties, it was startling how similar the thoughts of Joan were to Sherlock upon waking. The pain and sadness associated with regret did not enter her thoughts or her consciousness, but she felt the same deep-rooted and consuming sense of fear which had captured Sherlock mere minutes before. Her memory of the night before was no more patchy than his, and the sight of her white blouse and black skirt which lay together a few feet away from her served to aid her memory further. For just a moment, she forgot about the fear, and was overcome with the memory of how she had felt the night before, whilst they had been together. She had never felt so happy, content and safe in all the times she could remember. The argument they had, their complicated relationship, and all other factors which served as convincing reasons not to allow what happened the previous night to occur, had not only been absent, but had not existed at all. However, the feeling of fear soon overcame her once more, and was so powerful it almost took her breath away. She drew the blanket completely around her, retrieved her clothes, and crept silently up the stairs and retreated into her room.

Sherlock remained in the shower for the next ten minutes, the warm water running gently across his body. He ran his hands across his body, remembering each touch and caress of the night before. His eyes remained firmly closed, his breathing deep, his thoughts conflicted. Whilst he did not regret anything which occurred the night before, he feared Joan would. Despite the happiness the night before had brought him, and how rare it was for him to feel anything close to complete and utter completion, he would return it all in an instant if Joan was experiencing the slightest degree of fear or regret. Regardless of how he felt, or how her love was capable of making him feel, he could not pursue something which he feared would compromise the emotional wellbeing of his closest and most treasured partner, regardless of what that meant to their working relationship. He loved her, he was certain, but he would not allow her to pay the price for his adoration. He turned off the water, standing in total silence for several moments, the water falling from his weary limbs. He would do whatever it took to ensure her happiness.

In the time it had taken Sherlock to shower, Joan had been busy. She had been considering the night before too and, once again, her thoughts were not dissimilar to those of Sherlock. She had experienced the same feeling of happiness and completeness the night before, and was now wrestling with an overwhelming feeling of guilt. Although she was not his sober companion any more, she still felt that she had, in some way, betrayed the nature of their relationship. She chastised herself harshly, for giving in to her own desires at his expense. She was afraid that her outburst, as well as their passion, would set Sherlock back in his recovery, or even risk his overall happiness. Like Sherlock, she was unable to regret the night before. Their connection, so complete and so defined by happiness, was not something that could be regretted. But she did feel guilt. She began to question who initiated the kiss, whether she seduced him, whether it was what he truly wanted. It suddenly dawned on her that this was, perhaps, irrelevant. What mattered was what she chose to do now. Despite wanting to stay with him, in all ways, she was afraid of hurting him, of damaging everything he had worked so hard to achieve.

She sat on her bed and breathed deeply, calming herself, before picking up her phone and beginning to dial. When she reached voicemail, she sighed in frustration and dropped the phone onto the bed, before approaching her dressing table. She had quickly fixed her hair and make-up, and dressed herself in a white dress, opaque tights and her favourite black heels. She was pulling on her fitted jacket as her phone rang. "Joan Watson." She answered, surprised at the calmness and confidence of her own voice. "Yes, I was just calling to confirm our previous discussion. I am more than interested, I would like to accept it." The person on the other side spoke rapidly and concisely as Joan rushed around her room, placing various objects in the boxes and bags which she had been working on the night before, prior to their argument. "Yes, thank you, that would be perfect. No, not all. Eight o'clock would be fine. Thank you." She hung up, feelings of both fear and relief sweeping over her. It was only at this point that she realised that the shower was no longer on.

Sherlock had dressed quickly, partially dried his hair, and was now at work in the kitchen. The kettle was boiling and he was searching for Joan's favourite raspberry tea. Ghastly stuff, he thought, but he always made sure the cupboards were stocked with it. Calming stuff, apparently; therapeutic. He assumed she would be needing it. He stood next to the boiling kettle, the sound of the boiling water permeating the silence. He braced himself against the work surface, his fingers whitening under the intense grip. He released his iron-hold and began tapping on the work top, counting the taps, listening to the melody, trying to repeat it. The kettle finally finished boiling and he reached towards one of the cupboards for some mugs. As he placed them down, he was conscious of the sound of slow and tentative steps on the stairway. They seemed to pause near the bottom, gain confidence, then continue into the kitchen. "Sherlock?" came a familiar, slightly apprehensive voice. He turned slowly, his hands clasped in front of him. "Good morning, Watson."

The awkwardness which both of them had anticipated, the strangeness and unfamiliarity which they believed would define their first encounter since the previous night, was non-existent. The atmosphere was not the same, but there was no overwhelming feeling of tenseness or uncertainty. It was certainly not like before, but it was not unpleasant or awkward in the slightest. In fact, it felt completely natural. "I made you some tea, Watson." Sherlock chimed, his tone as excited as it usually was first thing in the morning. Joan observed a difference in him. It was not something incredibly apparent, nor something that acquaintances or even those close to him would necessarily have picked up on, but it was there. It was in his eyes. They seemed to her to be more expressive, to betray more of himself than he had previously permitted (to her, at least). It was at that moment that she realised how similar their experiences and thoughts over the past thirty minutes had been. "Thank you" she accepted, walking over to the counter and accepting the cup he handed to her. Again, the feelings she had anticipated were not present. In fact, even her guilt momentarily disappeared, and she felt once more drawn to him. They gazed upon each other for a few moments, and when the gaze broke, neither looked towards the living area. Certainly not the couch. "Sherlock, I-" Joan's statement was interrupted by the ringing of the door bell, followed by incessant and unrelenting banging. Sherlock looked from her to the doorway, and back again. She smiled, turned towards the hallway, and opened the door, silently cursing whoever was about to enter.

"Miss Watson, I'm glad you're here. Is Holmes in too?" Gregson's deep voice filled the house, and he was followed closely by Detective Bell. She confirmed Sherlock's presence and invited them into the kitchen, where Sherlock was now preparing more coffee for their guests.

"Ah, Captain." Sherlock began, turning towards him. "And to what do we owe the honour? Something urgent and immediate, I should judge, considering the violence you used against my defenceless door." He gestured for the policemen to sit down, placing hot mugs of steaming coffee in front of them. Joan leaned against the doorway, and was stood slightly behind the seating police officers, willing herself not to meet Sherlock's gaze quite so intensely as before. Sherlock noticed this, perceived her anxious appearance, and was momentarily overcome by the same fear he had experienced shortly before. "What is it, Captain?" he queried.

"Look, I know that after everything that has happened this is the last thing you want to hear-" the captain began, stretching his long fingers along the circumference of the mug "but we have strong evidence suggesting that Sharrington was not the only one involved in recent events." He paused to allow Sherlock and Joan to process this new information, before trying to recall his previously perfectly-planned speech. "In fact, it appears that he was simply a pawn in a much larger game. After searching his house, computer and surveying his recent activities and contacts, we believe that he was a cog in a much larger machine, orchestrated by two high-up individuals who are apparently intent on creating an organisation of moles. Moles within the public services, intelligence agencies, you name it. Although these two individuals are the ones with the money and the power, it has been made clear than Sharrington was an integral part of their operation." He paused, staring up at Holmes, whose gaze was fixed notably on Watson. "As such, your stellar efforts to reveal his identity and bring him to justice have placed these individuals at a significant disadvantage, and has compromised many of their ongoing plans. As such, we will be assigning you both protective details-" Sherlock scoffed and turned to face the window, before moving slowly to meet Gregson's stare "- until the identity of these individuals has been ascertained and the threat neutralised."

Sherlock stared at the ground, allowed his gaze to wander to Joan, and then raised his head confidently to face Gregson. "What evidence is it, exactly, that you have which has led you to this belief?" His tone was not one of doubt or confusion, but of agitation and concern. Not for himself though, of course. Gregson removed his hand from the mug and met Sherlock's steely glare. "Documents recovered from his computer reveal that he was in close contact with two individuals. He sent them encrypted emails which have been deciphered, and reveal their links to his operation. We also looked into his financial background, and he has been receiving considerable sums of money from these individuals which directly correspond with failed intelligence operations. The information has been reviewed, and confirmed. It also seems that Sharrington had amassed information on these individuals which he had, presumably, intended on using as a bartering chip. Never did, though."

"And what does this information reveal about these individuals?" responded Holmes, high eyes brightening.

"We haven't been able to break the encryption key yet. We were hoping to have it done before we came to you both with this sensitive information. But, as it was not done, we felt it important to see you both straight away. And to assign to protection officers."

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded, before pushing himself away from the work surface and standing tall, confident. "Thank you, captain, Watson and I will assist you in any way we can."

It was at this point his attention shifted to Joan, who remained leaning against the door frame. Throughout Gregson's speech, the previous feelings of guilt had returned. With this new threat, she knew that Sherlock's focus would need to be complete, unaffected by anything else. She felt that she had compromised this the night before. Her desires, and her acting upon them, could have negatively affected him, which would jeopardise their task and compromise the safety of countless operations and individuals. She was so overcome by her guilt that she could barely breathe. She would help him, she would assist the police. But above all, she would do everything in her power to protect Sherlock, to ensure his wellbeing. And she intended on starting right now.

"Of course we will, captain." She began, her voice adopting the same calm and confident tone she had with the phone call earlier. "But I received a confirmation call from my estate agent earlier this morning, and will be moving into my new apartment today." She looked from Gregson to Sherlock after finishing her declaration, and met his gaze. It was not anger or sadness that was returned to her, but a pained yet accepting sense of understanding. He forced a small smile and nodded "yes, of course, Watson. After you are suitably settled, we shall begin."


	3. Chapter 3

Following Joan's announcement, and Sherlock's response, Captain Gregson and Detective Bell shared a thoughtful look. They both realised that Sherlock and Joan would rather discuss the latter's move in private, and the sooner they dealt with that, the faster the case would progress. "Anyway, we should be off." Gregson began, rising slowly from his chair "Officers are being drafted in from multiple states, and we are liaising with various agencies. When you're both able, come to the precinct. In the meantime, I'll have someone sent over with some of the files and preliminary findings." Gregson thanked them both and turned to leave, Bell hot on his heels. Sherlock escorted them out as Joan remained against the door frame, her body tense, her vision clouded.

Joan heard the muttering of goodbyes in the hallway, and moved slowly towards the table. She took up Gregson's former seat and pushed his coffee to one side, drawing her own (now luke-warm) herbal tea closer. Despite its declining temperature, Joan felt a small measure of warmth and comfort by holding the mug, lacing her fingers around it and holding it steady. When the tips of her fingers met, she was reminded of something from the previous evening, a snap-shot of a memory. She remembered Sherlock gently lying her own the sofa, kissing her adoringly, and lacing their fingers together. She shifted at this memory, her closed eyes tightening at the thought, and released the mug. She leaned back in her seat and exhaled just as Sherlock re-entered the room.

The atmosphere which was present when they first met in the kitchen that morning had disappeared. In its place was something new, something threatening. The prospect of them continuing the work which they had so painstakingly focused on for so long, and had come so close to completing, was devastating for them both. Considering the events of the previous evening and Joan's imminent departure, it was surprising that they were both as calm and focused as they appeared to be.

Sherlock walked over to the counter and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee before joining Joan at the table. He sat at the seat opposite, and wrapped his fingers around the mug as she had done just moments earlier. Watching his fingers meet, then depart, before returning once more, reminded Joan of her own thoughts. She wondered whether the same flash of memory had greeted him, too. She was drawn back into her reverie by this thought. If something as simple as coffee could remind them of their former passion, and draw their minds away from what they needed to focus on, what else would trigger it? What other dangers would there be? She placed her hands back on the mug and laced her fingers together once more, in an act of brave defiance. "I got the phone call this morning" she began, speaking softly as she slowly looked up from her tea. "The apartment I viewed a couple of days ago is available immediately. As it's practically fully furnished, it shouldn't take me more than a day to have my stuff released from storage and placed in my new place." She tried to give him a small, reassuring smile, anything to comfort him. "I can move in at eight this evening, which gives me nine or ten hours to pack and arrange to pick up the rest of my stuff. But that's more than enough time, so-"

"So you'd like to-" Sherlock interrupted her then broke off, immediately aware of how uncertain he was of what he wanted to say, of how best to comfort her. He deduced that she had pulled some strings to move out earlier, perhaps due to her feeling awkward, or believing that he would be. He wasn't. But if this was the best way to help her, he would not stand in her way. "Do you need a hand with anything? Is there anything I can do?" He stared up at her with wide, beaming eyes. Joan once again noted a marked difference in the way he looked at her, the messages his eyes conveyed and betrayed. She realised that the question had depth, more depth than was immediately apparent. He wasn't asking whether she wanted him to help her pack, carry boxes or arrange her possessions in the most efficient way for travelling. He was trying to reach out to her, to figure out how best to deal with the events of the previous night. She smiled inwardly to herself at this thought, at the consideration and care he was displaying. "I'm fine, really." She replied. "Everything is sorted and arranged, and it will all be fine. It will always be fine." She once again offered him a sweet smile, and this time she felt more confident in displaying it.

Sherlock seemed to be absorbing Joan's words, and the meaning behind them. He did not speak for several moments, as if waiting for her to continue speaking, or to resume the previous night's argument. "Of course" he replied, calmly and quietly, as he returned a similar smile to her. "I will be gathering the information from the previous investigations. Should you require any assistance, I will be here." Sherlock released his grip of the coffee mug and pushed it slightly aside. He got up from the table and walked towards the living area, surveying it. His glance wandered over to the sofa, and stayed there for a few seconds longer than he realised. He moved over to the curtain, pushed them further aside, and turned on the lights. The files, papers and photographs which covered the walls and fireplace were bathed in natural and artificial light, and Sherlock stared at them all, as if reading every single word in an instant. Joan watched him for a moment, before relinquishing her tea and moving upstairs to pack. She was not sure what to make of their last conversation, but for the first time in quite a while she felt as though things between them were perhaps, not quite as daunting or as damaging as she had once believed them to be.

The next few hours passed quickly, with Sherlock and Joan both remaining in their own spaces, occupied by their tasks. Sherlock had been reorganising the material he had available, and was further researching Sharrington, and reaching out to his international contacts who may be able to assist. Meanwhile, Joan would wrapped up in the much less grand task of folding clothes, organising possessions and cleaning the room. When everything was packed and boxed, the room looked hauntingly empty. For some reason this had a much greater affect of Joan than she had anticipated. The floors, walls and furniture were bereft of all traces of her, as though she had never existed in Sherlock's world. She feared this would continue on a much grander scale. Instead of spending too much time in that room, in that mindset, she dragged her possessions out into the corridor, stacked them neatly and checked her watch. The removal men would be there in less than ten minutes. She considered going downstairs to see Sherlock, ask how he was progressing, offer assistance. She quickly decided against it. Instead, she wrapped herself up in one of her floral scarves and perched gently on the side of one of her boxes, awaiting the ringing of the doorbell. When it came, she felt certain that she should approach Sherlock, say goodbye properly, reassure him. The thought of entering the living area again filled her with a mix of apprehension and excitement bordering on exhilaration. She had no idea why. As if somehow realising her concerns, after opening the door to the removal men, Sherlock rushed up the stairs with speed and agility matched only when on a particularly riveting case, and began to carry down her possessions, offering her another smile as their eyes met when reaching the bottom of the stairs. When the van was loaded, and the new address confirmed, the two handsome and stocky removal men entered their vehicle and drove towards their new destination, with Joan intent on following in her car. Sherlock stood in the open doorway, his tall body towering over Joan's. "I hope you counted your possessions and have them catalogued" he began in a semi-serious tone, before quipping "I think the gentleman with the greying fringe was eyeing up your decaying first teddy bear." He smiled softly, bouncing slightly on his heels as he did so. She smiled back at him. "Goodbye, Watson. Do let me know if I can be of assistance. And please come over when you are quite ready." He held out his hand to shake hers, a strange formality which seemed more out of place than anything else that had occurred that day. Joan glanced from his outstretched hand to his wide, beaming eyes, which were now tinged slightly with sadness. She stepped closer to him and slowly drew her arms around his waist. The gesture seemed to take him by surprise, but he responded almost instantly, lowering his head until it rested near her cheek. He exhaled slowly, before tightening his hug then releasing her, and leaning back to stare at her face. He smiled once more, and she returned it, again. As she descended the steps and moved towards her car, refusing to look back as she knew she would not be able to handle it, she wondered whether he saw in her eyes what she had just viewed in his: sadness tinged with longing.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan's apartment was wonderful. Not completely dissimilar to the apartment she lived in before working with Sherlock. However, she realised that she had certainly adopted some of his taste in colours and furnishings. Instead of the usual pastel shades, her apartment boasted deep colours, passionate reds, and dark wood antique furniture. The couch was comfortable yet ornate, and her bookshelf had expanded notably in both category and volume. She found that she had much less need for the cluttering which her many trinkets had caused in the past, and endorsed a more minimalist approach to decorating her home. It was only on the evening of the four-week anniversary of her moving into her new home that she realised that the tiles for the bathroom and rug for the living room were almost exact replicas of those owned by Sherlock, who applauded their choice immeasurably.

During the first few weeks she spent in her new apartment, Joan was surprised at how easily she shifted back into the routine involving living alone. It was not uncomfortable or lonely, her frequent visits to and from Sherlock ensured that. Their working relationship remained the same, with one travelling to the home of the other late at night, or early in the morning, and discussing their most recent findings and conjectures regarding individuals who had been dubbed 'The Couple'. On the occasional chance that Sherlock came to Joan's late at night to discuss the case, he would sometimes spend the night in the spare room, and Joan did the same at the brownstone. It was an unwritten rule between them, no permission was needed, and the decision was made and mutually decided without words. Joan often considered it to be a subconscious concession: neither party truly wished to leave the other, but it was necessary for the well-being of both. By spending the occasional evening together, like old times, they were slowly but surely adjusting themselves to the new changes in their working relationship.

With all things considered, the two months following Joan's departure from the brownstone had been notably successful for both parties, with significant headway being achieved on their most pressing case. Working closely with various police departments and intelligence agencies had provided the duo with a plethora of information which had been previously unavailable to them. They had access to confidential materials, CCTV footage, private information, histories and other forms of evidence which had been scrupulously picked apart by various agencies across the world. But despite their efforts, as well as the significant and instrumental input of Sherlock Holmes, the case was moving slower than was needed, and the affects of the power and prowess of The Couple was notable. A multitude of cases relating to the death or mysterious disappearance of various police officers, undercover detectives, members of the secret service and political figureheads had emerged, and caused widespread attention and concern. Although some of these cases turned out to be either one-offs or unrelated (with one accidental death, two crimes of passion and a home invasion gone wrong) the vast majority appeared to be linked by the actions of The Couple, and the incredible power and influence they appeared to wield. From computer records, CCTV images, psychological profiling and other forms of evidence, it was established that the couple comprised of a male and a woman, between 35 and 50 years of age, both with high intelligence levels. The intricacy of some of the crimes, and the computer-relating experience displayed, revealed that at least one member of the duo was highly skilled and skilled technologically. However, despite significant progress, and the foiling or preventing of several of the security breaches, the identities, targets and motivations of these individuals was shrouded in mystery and suspense. The teams of officers, agents and private individuals working tirelessly to solve the issue was proving much less productive than had been hoped for. Sherlock had been focusing on studying and analysing the previous moves of The Couple in order to understand their intentions and deduce their next move, whereas Joan had immersed herself completely in the files relating to Sharrington, and was attempting to define and understand his relationship with The Couple, which was proving to be an equally problematic task. A task which, especially from Sherlock's perspective, was not made easier by the knowledge that he and Joan were being constantly watched and reported on by the protective officers assigned to them.

The protective details which had been assigned to Sherlock and Joan were former secret service officers who were painfully thorough, much to Sherlock's exasperation. They were each assigned two 'minders', as Sherlock had dubbed them, and were under constant protection (or 'pointless and rather useless surveillance' which was, again, coined by Sherlock). The need for the input or assistance of the protection officers had been unnecessary and unused for the first two months of the investigation, and their presence was actively disliked and distrusted by Sherlock Holmes. Joan Watson, however, was grateful albeit wary of their duties. Whilst partially sharing Sherlock's concerns, and disliking the idea of being constantly followed and denied the privacy which she was seeking, she conceded that their job was not completely dissimilar to her own, although on a much smaller scale. She had even made an effort to establish a semi-formal relationship with her protection officers, Jennifer Cole and William LaCouere, who appeared to be equally wary and suspicious of her. Somehow, and for some completely unknown reason, she found this almost reassuring.

Despite Sherlock's strong dislike of the officers, their role and what he perceived to be unjustified spying on himself and Joan, the latter did not allow such thoughts to cloud her mind or influence her schedule. She continued her normal schedule, consisting of going running in the mornings, volunteering once a week at a local homeless shelter, a couple of hours at the free clinic on the weekend (case-load depending) and coffee mornings with some college friends every second Wednesday. Despite her commitments to Sherlock and their cases, as well as to the threat of The Couple, Joan did everything in her power to maintain her obligations to other individuals and groups, finding herself more deeply concerned with pursuing her own interests and desires than ever before. She was handling the workload well, making progress, ensuring Sherlock's contentment and general well-being, which, more than anything, made her aware of how much she needed (and deserved) exactly the same. Despite the pressures of her working commitments, she was finally beginning to feel as though things were beginning to fall into place.

However, the equilibrium which she believed she had attained was completely and utterly retracted two months after she moved into her apartment. It was a Wednesday, and Joan was walking to the restaurant a few blocks from her apartment to meet her college friends. One of her friends, Amanda, was engaged, and with the wedding just a few weeks away, she was nervous and coveting the advice of those she had known for over a decade. Joan was thinking of Amanda as she crossed one of the streets on her journey. She was imagining Amanda in the wedding gown that she had proudly showed them, with the beautiful lace detail and elegant cut. Joan was certain that such a dress would be complemented by the addition of her own grandmother's diamond brooch, which was wrapped safely and carefully in her bag, and would constitute the 'something old' which Amanda had been searching for fruitlessly. A smile animated Joan's features as she considered how happy her friend would be, and how beautiful she would look in a few weeks time. So wrapped up in this thought was Joan, that she did not notice the hooded figure which had been following her since she left her apartment.

Joan checked the time on her phone and realised that, in her excitement, she had left slightly earlier than was necessary, and had ten minutes to spare. She walked slowly and contently across the pavement, peering into several shop windows with interest. One particular store caught her eye, as it was one she frequented often, and one of which she was very fond. It was an old antique shop near the restaurant which was nothing short of a goldmine, in her opinion. The store was loaded to the ceiling with old books, antique clothings, furniture, jewellery and artwork, and had provided much of the furnishings which now adorned Joan's new apartment. Joan peered in through the shining glass, and admired a pearl necklace which was displayed in an elegant red velvet box. She had always been fond of pearls, they reminded her so much of her late grandmother. As she looked up from the box, something shimmered in the bottom right hand corner of the window. Joan's attention was instantly drawn to this shining of light, and it took her less than a moment to realise what it was. It was the reflection of the blade of a knife, and it was moving closer to her. She remained perfectly still for a moment, focusing her attention on the hand which was holding the blade, and moving towards her. Dark jacket, dark trousers, hooded, shiny black shoes. When the figure was just a foot or so away from Joan, she spun around, knocking the knife from the arm of her would-be assailant. After having been disarmed, the hooded figure launched itself at Joan, grabbing her forcefully by the arms and slamming her body into the glass of the shop, which shattered upon impact. Joan fell to the ground, but was able to recover quickly enough to avoid a blow from the attacker. Before she could get to her feet, Joan was thrown into the doorway of the abandoned store next door, her chest and abdomen being slammed into the hard surface. Before she could react, Joan felt an incredible, indescribable pain shooting through her abdomen, and spread through her stomach. She wrapped one arm around her stomach before sinking to the ground, closing her eyes, and finding herself overcome by darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Joan lost consciousness for less than a minute. As she opened her eyes, she found herself huddled in the doorway of the abandoned store, one arm still wrapped around her abdomen, the other supporting her head. The pain she felt before shot through her once more, bringing her back to full consciousness. She had never felt a pain so incredible and so intense, it brought tears to her eyes and took her breath away. As she tried to push herself up from the ground, she felt two large, strong arms embrace her and draw her back towards the street. She tried to fight, but was unable to, the pain in her stomach worsening.

"Miss Watson, you're alright. It's alright." She tilted her head slightly and realised that the arms belonged to William, one of her protection officers. For someone so strong, authoritative and often expressionless, his kind and reassuring manner instantly put her at his ease. "Jennifer is chasing the subject, but we are not too hopeful." Joan looked up at him as he shifted slightly, placing one arm across her back and the other under her legs, drawing her closer to him. "We need to get you to hospital, ma'am," he began, lifting her gently as he stood. The pain was becoming unbearable from Joan, whose arm had not left her abdomen, and was now leaning her head against his shoulder in a vain attempt to brace herself against the pain. She managed to mumble "thank you" to him before she was eased slowly into a waiting car. William lay her gently across the back seats whilst attempting to comfort her by telling her "it's alright, you're going to be fine, just hold on". As he shut the door and rushed to the driver's seat, started the engine and raced to the hospital, Joan had a powerful and overwhelming feeling that he was wrong.

It took them less than four minutes to arrive at the hospital, which was nothing short of a miracle considering the time of day. The car screeched to a stop in a small parking bay near the front of the hospital. Joan had been lying quietly in the back, the pain finally beginning to subside slightly. It was still present, still torturous, but she found that she was able to cope with it better. She had been working on breathing slowly and deeply, and exhaling gradually, which seemed to make a marginal difference. The cool leather seats and partial darkness of the back seat was flooded with bright light as William threw the door open and gathered her up once more, just as gently, in his arms. This time, he ran with her through the entrance of the hospital.

The Accident and emergency department was not as busy as it usually was at this time of day. There were half a dozen patients in the seating area, being comforted by clearly concerned relatives, and three or four individuals lining up at the front desk, nursing bleeding heads or high fevers. William made straight for the front desk, passing the queuing people, whose initial anger subsided upon seeing the injured woman he was carrying. Joan's white blouse was torn, bloodied and adorned with broken glass, and her face was scratched and slightly bruised from the impact with the window. Her black skirt and tights concealed the blood which was running down her legs. Joan's pain had returned to its former intensity, and was overtaking her senses and ability to think as clearly as she was often able. But she was aware of the blood, as well as its most likely source. The fear and sadness associated with this thought overtook her, and she began sobbing whilst struggling to catch her breath, before another wave of pain overtook her.

Joan did not recall what William said to the woman behind the desk, but the urgency of his tone and Joan's current physical state ensured that they were assisted almost instantly. Before she knew it, Joan was lowered onto a gurney and taken through to a large, brightly lit room. Two doctors and two nurses worked on her whilst William waited anxiously outside the room and made a couple of phone calls, much to the annoyance of several passing members of staff. William flashed them his badge and told them to move on, more gruffly than he had perhaps intended. He was incredible frustrated, and felt utterly deflated that he and Jennifer arrived too late. He felt this way about his duties to all of his charges, of course. But there was something about Miss Watson. Her manner, her demeanour, her kindness, it drew people to her and ensured their desire to protect her. Or to try, at least.

Joan lost consciousness on the gurney for a few minutes, during which time the medical staff worked quickly and efficiently. Joan slowly opened her eyes, and raised her hand to shield herself from the bright, artificial lights. She realised that the pain which she had once found to be excruciating was still present, but significantly dulled. Her shoes and tights had been removed, and the bottom of her shirt was raised to reveal her abdomen. One of the nurses was brushing glass from Joan's hair, and treating several superficial wounds to her face. The second nurse was arranging something in the corner of the room, and came towards Joan carrying a syringe. Joan tilted her head slightly as the nurse passed it to one of the doctors who was standing to her left.

"Wait, wait what is it?" She mumbled, her eyes widening.

"It's alright, Miss Watson, just a mild analgesic." The doctor smiled at her reassuringly before placing the needle in the IV line.

"No, no I can't," she began, raising her hand to remove the needle. "I can't have that. I... I think I..." she faltered, and began to cry once more, her whole body shaking.

"It's alright, Miss Watson, it's alright," the doctor removed the syringe and placed it on a table before placing one hand on her left shoulder and looking kindly to her. "Miss Watson, Miss Watson" he repeated as she began looking around the room and breathing heavier. "It's alright, Miss Watson. You don't need to worry, you are fine. You are out of danger."

She exhaled sharply and stared confidently into his eyes. "My... my stomach," she began, her right arm subconsciously draped across her abdomen. "and I was bleeding, and" her breath caught in her throat, and she raised her left hand to cover her mouth, before clearing her throat and looking back at him. She looked up at him, and spoke with a more confident, calm tone. "Doctor, am I pregnant?" The last word felt strange, unknown to her. She had been thinking it in the car on the journey over, before becoming convinced of it whilst William was holding her near the front desk.

The doctor released his hold on her shoulder and drew a small stool closer to her bed. She tilted her head slightly to focus on him, and he returned her gaze with confidence. "Yes, Miss Watson. There was some bleeding, but we were able to control it. Whilst you were unconscious, we performed an ultrascan and confirmed our suspicions. It was quicker than waiting for a test, and the need to for quick and immediate treatment was... pressing." He smiled at her. "You are fine, and so is your baby. I'm sorry we didn't have time to print off the image for you. You're about eight weeks along, and everything looks as it should." He was speaking in a calm and sincere tone, one which Joan herself adopted with several of her patients during her time as a surgeon. The doctor shifted slightly towards the table and picked up the syringe. "The pain and the bleeding is normal considering the nature of your injury, but we established that there was no long term or significant damage to your pregnancy. And this analgesic" he rose the syringe to ensure that Joan could see it fully "is suitable for pregnant women. We gave you something, again, suitable for your condition, before, but this is slightly stronger, and should help to alleviate your pain. The pain which you have been experiencing will not return Miss Watson, we have ensured that."

Joan had listened intently throughout the entire time the doctor had been talking. After he had finished, she nodded, before drawing her white blouse (or the remains of it) to cover her exposed abdomen. She chewed her bottom lip, unknowingly, and then turned back to the seated medic. "And you're sure that, um... That the... That everything's okay?" Her eyes widened and the thought that something could be wrong with the baby, that he or she could have been harmed by the morning's events. Despite having just been reassured that everything was fine, Joan wanted to hear it again. She needed to.

The doctor rose from his seat and looked at her compassionately. "Absolutely, Miss Watson. The baby is fine, very healthy." He spoke with a confident tone and did not once break her gaze. She forced a small smile and thanked him for all he and his team had done, and he walked across the room to explain something from Joan's chart to one of the nurses. Joan ran her left hand, which contained a canular, across her forehead, and drew some of the hair away from her face. She exhaled deeply, and adjusted herself in the bed so that she was more comfortably seated. Tears once again returned to her eyes, and she could feel herself shaking. The initial fear at the revelation of her pregnancy had been overshadowed by her greater concerns relating to the well-being of her child which, now alleviated, left her to deal with the issue of her condition. As she wiped her eyes and surveyed the room, she heard loud footsteps rushing towards the room. Panic gripped her, and she braced herself in her bed. The doctor, evidently sensing her distress, moved closer to her, and once again placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. The footsteps stopped outside the door, and Joan was could hear William speaking loudly and authoritatively, an air of urgency defining his tone. She also caught a name, a name William used to address the person he was speaking to. Panic and fear gripped Joan tighter than any pain she could have possibly imagined. Joan rose her hand and placed it on top of the doctor's, drawing his attention from the door to her face. "Doctor, I don't want anyone to know about the... about my condition. Please do not tell anyone who comes into this room." She spoke quietly yet imploringly, and the doctor squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and stated that he would not.

A few seconds later William's voice rose, and one of the double doors opened quickly, with an unimpressed William stood behind the figure of the man who opened it. Joan could only see part of William's jacket and arm, but the individual who came into the room was directly in her line of vision, and bathed in the glow of the artificial lights. Wearing a pained and desperate expression as he stood tall and still in the doorway, Sherlock had entered the room.


	6. Chapter 6

His pained and frightened expression drew Joan's attention towards him immediately, her desire to help him overwhelming her, almost forgetting her own pain for a moment. He let go of the door and allowed it to fall swiftly back into place, before crossing the room briskly and standing by her side. His actions reminded her very much of his manner when he first saw her following her kidnapping ordeal a couple of months ago, when he approached and stood directly in front of her, looked over her entire body as if searching for prominent and hidden injuries, but all without making any physical contact. It was almost as if he had been afraid to touch her, perhaps out of concern for her health or fear for betraying his own feelings. His actions here were very much the same. She recognised the same lost, frightened look in his eyes, and offered him a small smile as comfort, which he gratefully accepted. Neither of them had realised how close he was to her until a few moments passed and, confident that she was out of danger, he moved back a few paces, his wild eyes and agitated demeanour temporarily placated. He was clearly still concerned, pained and evidently confused. His cheeks were reddened and his eyes revealed a hint of anger, both of which, Joan deduced, were at least partly due to the argument he had just had with William. Neither of them spoke for several moments, simply staring at each other, with Joan's weary eyes meeting Sherlock's own which were, by contrast, dancing with energy. Finally, the silence was broken.

"Watson, I..." he faltered, pressing his hands together then drawing them quickly apart. "I'm very sorry. This should not have happened. I should have prevented this." His tone lowered and he quietened, his gentle eyes darkening.

Joan calmly called his name, drawing his attention back to her face. She tried to maintain a calm yet confident tone in order to reassure them both, and to fight back the overwhelming feeling she had to burst into tears and seek his comfort. He appeared to struggle to focus on her, which Joan put down to a mixture of his unnecessary guilt and evident discomfort and sadness at seeing his closest companion scratched and bleeding. "This could not have been predicted or prevented. I had two of the best trained intelligence officers protecting me and they could not have anticipated it either. No one could." She spoke softly and tilted her head slightly to meet Sherlock's gaze, the latter having resumed staring at the floor part way through her speech. "Sherlock this isn't your fault." Her last words betrayed her sadness, conveying the pain and anguish which she was currently wrestling. She did not blame Sherlock, the only person she held to be responsible at all was her attacker. The thought of his guilt pained her more than she could imagine or convey, and she was desperate to reassure him. At the same time, she was terrified about the doctor's revelation, and was trying to prevent herself from breaking down in front of Sherlock. When she first saw him standing in the doorway, she had almost blurted it out, but his fixed gaze drew her away from her own thoughts and fears. Besides, she mused, this was not how she should tell him.

"I placed you in this danger, and failed to ensure that you were sufficiently protected" he began, his tone gentle and compassionate, as he looked at her once again with his bright eyes. "And for that I will never be able to atone. I have failed you, Watson." His voice fell once more, but he did not break their mutual gaze. His sadness and self-condemnation broke her heart.

"Not all things can be foreseen or anticipated" she began, stopping sharply, and considering the recent news which she had not considered occurring. "And they cannot always be prevented. But I am fine, there is no long term damage." She smiled up at him, more confidently than she had previously, which did not seem to comfort him as much as she had hoped. "And I was protected. By working with you on this particular case I was assigned two officers who protected me. Without you, I would not have had them. They would not have been with me, and the situation may have been very different." She tried to detach herself from previous events as she spoke, but the memories of her attack soon came flooding back, and she once again felt afraid. Her eyes widened and she bit her bottom lip before emerging from her reverie to find that Sherlock was standing much closer to her, closer than he had been when he had first rushed to her bedside. His lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words formed. He rose his head to meet her eyes, and placed his right hand gently on her left cheek, his warmth and strength resonating through them both. She closed her eyes for just a moment, and felt more comfort than she felt it possible to acquire due to her attack and the revelation of her pregnancy. She realised how significant this was for him, this contact. Of course, they had experienced a much more intimate and prolonged closeness on that one night, but this was something different. Or perhaps not, perhaps it was an extension of their previous closeness and intimacy. Either way, she knew that it was not something which he found easy or comfortable, certainly not in the presence of the medical staff. In an attempt to comfort them both, she placed her hand on top of his and smiled up at him as kindly and in as reassuring a manner as she could manage. His response was quick and unexpected.

His eyes widened slightly at her actions, and he leaned towards her and kissed her gently on her right cheek, before gently drawing his hand away from her face and wrapping both his arms around her. He was clearly concerned over her pain, as his movements were quick yet gentle, with him placing the smallest amount of pressure upon her body in the hug, and resting his hands near her shoulder blades, which he had observed were undamaged and therefore unlikely to cause her any pain. She closed her eyes at his embrace, and slowly wrapped her own arms around him. The warmth and safety she felt when he touched her cheek was magnified to an infinite degree, and she felt transcendent. For just a few moments she was free, and safe, and invincible. After what seemed like just a moment, but was in fact several beautiful minutes, Joan and Sherlock removed their arms from one another. He stepped back what he considered to be a respectable distance, but was prevented by Joan, who shifted slightly on her hospital bed and patted the space next to her, indicating for him to sit. He seemed initially uncertain, like a frightened child unsure of whether to accept sweets from a distant relative, but shifted gently on his feet before joining her on her bed.

Joan once again repeated her previous act of looking directly into Sherlock's eyes and smiling bravely. She was becoming quite good at it, very convincing. He almost did believe that she was alright. "I need you to listen to me, really listen, just for a minute" she began, placing one hand on the side of the bed and the other over Sherlock's own. He did not retract his hand or flinch, but remained perfectly still. Her touch was more comforting to him than he could explain to himself, certainly not to her. He simply enjoyed the calmness and strength he felt from it. "what happened was awful. I was scared, and it hurt" she spoke in her previously adopted detached manner, her tone remaining candid and sincere. "But I knew that I was protected, and I was. The people who protected me are here because of you. They are an extension of you, of us, of what we do. They protected me like we protect each other." His eyes seemed to register what she was saying, and she felt that she was actually getting through to him. "I saw their reflection in the store window" she began, her tone almost consistent with her normal one. "The attacked had a knife, and I used the techniques that you taught me, that you trained me for, to disarm them. Without you and without your guidance, I have no doubt that I would have been stabbed. My injuries would have been far worse, and we probably wouldn't be sitting her right now." She paused for several moments, desperately hoping to make him understand just how much he had protected her. She sounded confident, certain and completely sincere. And she was, she believed every word.

Sherlock had remained silent and unmoving throughout the time she was talking. When he was sure she had finished, he turned his head to face her, and she was relieved to see that the pain and anguish which swam in his eyes appeared to have been defeated by her words, and their truth. Although she doubted very much that he completely agreed with her, and that his guilt was completely alleviated, she saw in him the recognition of the logic and truth in what she had said. She hoped that this would provide him with as much comfort as it had her. "You know, I'm so tired, I just want to change and crawl into bed" she smiled at him, her eyes shining. "Would you take me home? I'm sure I can be discharged, and I'll recuperate much faster and more effectively in my own home." He looked at her with uncertainty before nodding, confirming that he would certainly take her home providing the medics agreed. After some convincing, which was successful mainly due to the fact Joan revealed herself to be a doctor who would return to the hospital immediately if it was medically necessary, Joan's doctor consented. He did not mention her pregnancy, or allude to it in any way, which Joan was grateful for. She was certain that even the most obscure of references would be correctly interpreted by Sherlock, and she wasn't quite ready to tell him. Her fear in discussing their child with him filled her with sadness and guilt, but she knew that she needed to process the information first, and at least partially recover, before discussing it with him. If she knew him at all as well as she hoped she did, she realised that now would already be an incredibly difficult time for him, and she did not intend on adding to it.

Joan and Sherlock was driven back to the former's apartment by William, whose relief that Joan was alright was not even partially disguised. He spoke to her kindly, apologising profusely, and expressing his most sincere hopes that she would feel better soon, and declared that her personal security would be improved. Sherlock remained silent throughout this conversation, although Joan swore that she could feel the heat from his seething. She had no doubt that he held William responsible for what happened. She didn't, far from it. In fact, she credited him with having saving her life. If he hadn't taken her to hospital so promptly, she would almost certainly have lost the baby, possibly even died. For this reason, Joan was more grateful for William than Sherlock could understand. She expressed her gratitude to him, and offered him the same reassuring smile and comforting manner that she had given Sherlock. Unlike the latter, William seemed to accept this graciously, and was visibly comforted and moved by her words. For a moment, she was afraid that he knew of her pregnancy. The location of the pain and the extent of her bleeding were, to her at least, fairly clear signs. However, he made no reference or allusions to the possibility of her pregnancy, and her explanation of the four broken ribs she had (which was completely true) seemed to fill in the gaps for him.

When they arrived at Joan's apartment, the car remained parked outside for several minutes whilst Joan and Sherlock talked. As much as she coveted his company, and would have found an immeasurable amount of comfort and solace in his presence, she knew that she had to be alone. If he stayed with her for the night, she was afraid she might blurt out the news of her pregnancy to him, which neither of them were able to deal with at this particular moment. She also felt that his guilt would return if they remained together that night. Every bruise, scratch, and pained inhalation would bring all his fears of self-condemnation and guilt back to the surface, and he did not deserve that. She wanted to spare him that. Moreover, she believed that he would be comforted in locating the perpetrator of her attack. It was something practical, something which would serve them both, and something which he would certainly wish to pursue as quickly as possible. After some convincing, he acquiesced, walking her up to her apartment, checking it over for her own safety, and assuring her that four safety officers would be nearby at all times. Before he left her, he repeated the same action of standing in front of her and looking in a caring yet frightened manner at her. Once again, he appeared afraid to initiate any physical contact with her, lest she should feel awkward, pained, or perhaps even break. Or perhaps he feared that these events would happen to both of them. He placed his hand back on her cheek, and stared at her authoritatively as he asked her to reassure him that she would call him at any time for any purpose should she require his presence or assistance. She readily agreed, and placed her own hand on top of his own. They remained, standing like this and staring at each other, for so long that William almost left his post to check on them.

After he left, Joan threw her jacket on to the sofa and slowly made her way across the apartment and towards the bathroom. She felt sore, exhausted and incredibly upset. As soon as he left, she felt a tightening in her stomach, and the fear that she had felt when first realising that she could be pregnant returned. She slowly bent down to place the plug in that bath, which took longer than anticipated, her damaged ribs bemoaning her leaning down. She turned on the taps and poured a light pink liquid into the tub, and a comforting and warming aroma instantly filled the room. She slowly undressed which, again, caused great difficulty. Her blouse could not be salvaged, so she threw it in the bathroom bin, but she dropped her black skirt and other clothing carelessly and tiredly on to the floor. As she slowly immersed herself in the bathtub she felt, for a moment, completely relaxed. The water embraced her and ran gently and soothingly across her aching limbs, bruised skin and various cuts. She immersed herself completely under the water, remaining there for almost a minute, before raising herself up once more. She pushed her hair back from her face and, completely without realising, drew her right arm across her abdomen. At that moment, the reality of her current situation hit her with an incredible impact. She looked down at her abdomen, and drew her arm slowly across it until her hand was resting upon her stomach. She splayed her fingers and allowed them to gently caress her abdomen, which was shining and soapy with the water. At this moment, the calmness and confidence which she had been trying to achieve for the past few hours fell, and began to cry. Her crying turned into sobbing which was filled with fear and anguish, and she clasped her hand tightly across her mouth. By the time she was able to calm herself, the bubbles had almost all disappeared, and the water was almost cold.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite her sadness and fear, Joan slept more soundly that night than she had in recent weeks. The exhaustion from her experiences, as well as from her uncontrollable sobbing, had rendered her completely emotionally exhausted, and she fell asleep moments after her head hit the pillow. Despite her dreamless and refreshing sleep, Joan awoke several hours earlier than she was used to, with the six o'clock morning light shining through a gap in the curtains, disturbing her rest. As soon as she had opened her eyes she found herself to be wide awake, with the solace that sleep provided being snatched from her grasp. She slowly eased herself up from the bed, her sore and aching ribs reminding her of the events of the previous day. She inhaled sharply as her feet touched the cold floor, and she slowly made her way to the closet. She was wearing a loose-fitting white cotton shirt and tanned shorts, and selected a thick magnolia sweater to pull over her fragile frame.

Although feeling markedly better than the previous day, Joan was aware of the current soreness of her eyes, which were reddened and felt rather heavy. After brewing herself some tea Joan seated herself at the breakfast bar in her kitchen, wrapping her fingers around the comfortingly warm mug. This action instantly reminded her of the day after the night when she and Sherlock slept together. She breathed in deeply as she remembered the night, and heard the doctor's words regarding her pregnancy. She no longer cried or felt consumed by terror, but was trying to distance herself from what was happening. She was not cold or uncaring, but frightened of what was going to happen. She had considered all her options briefly the night before, before weeping in frustration at the feeling that several of her options would risk Sherlock's life, their baby's, or possibly even her own. She felt that, by trying to become detached or numb, she would be able to make a rational and correct decision, not one clouded by emotions or illogicality. However, as she tightened her grip on her rapidly cooling mug, she realised that she had been wrong in that assumption. She could not distance herself from what was happening because she already felt a strong, incredible connection to her child. Her desire to protect him or her had pre-dated the confirmation of her pregnancy. As she was laying in the back of the car on the way to the hospital, convincing herself of the diagnosis, she was willing her child to be strong enough to pull through their ordeal. When the doctor confirmed that her pleas had been answered, her gratitude and happiness had overwhelmed her. But this was soon replaced by uncertainty and fear. Not in her desire to continue with her pregnancy, that was the one thing she was certain she would do. Her fear and doubt were in relation to her ability to protect her child for the next crucial seven months, and then the rest of his or her life.

Her eyes began to glisten with tears as she reconsidered her thoughts from the previous night, and she was frustrated to find that the comforting tea was now stone cold. She slowly unclasped her fingers and nudged the mug a few inches away from her, re-clasping her fingers once more and resting her chin upon her knuckles. Joan had decided that, whatever happened, she wished to continue with the pregnancy. The intensity of her protectiveness and care for her child was incredible, so strong and so overwhelming that it consumed Joan's thoughts and actions. Despite loving the baby, she felt that her feelings were not the only ones to consider. She first considered Sherlock. She could not predict how he would react to this revelation. At this time, in these circumstances, she was not certain that it was something that he would be able to process and feel able to handle. She did not want to set him back in his recovery, or compromise his well-being, or cause any additional stress or sadness. But at the same time, she realised that he needed to know, to be told. He was just as much a part of this as she was and, more than anything, she desperately needed someone to confide in. After her recent experiences and the current cases they were working on, she was made aware of just how fragile and unreliable trust was, and the only person she truly felt able to discuss this with was him.

After considering Sherlock, her thoughts went to their baby. She almost lost their child before even knowing of its existence, and the threats to his or her safety were far from over. With what Joan and Sherlock do, with their history and their reputations, any child of theirs would be in danger from multiple threats, including former clients, people they had helped to convict, current criminals, anyone wishing to prevent their intervention in an ongoing case, and the list was potentially endless. Joan could not bear the thought of endangering her child, certainly not due to something which she was participating in willingly. She accepted the risks, their child did not. Even if she and Sherlock stopped their work, they would still be targets, and that meant that their child would be too. Their reputations were international, and with a plethora of individuals interested in their work (or preventing it, as was often the case), there was no escaping or abandoning what they did in order to raise their child. The threat was still exist. Joan wept at this realisation, feeling completely helpless and overwhelmed. She breathed in deeply and calmed herself within a few minutes, before picking up on her train of thought. It was at that moment that she realised that, regardless of how much she wanted to, or how much Sherlock may want to (or not, she was unsure), she could not ensure their child's safety. She leant across the breakfast bar and drew her laptop close to her side, opened it and waited as it slowly loaded. Once she had logged in and opened her browser, she began researching adoption possibilities. With each word she typed, her eyes glistened with tears which she refused to allow to fall, wiping them quickly away on the frequent occasions when the escaped from her eyes. _I have no choice_, she told herself repeatedly, every time the fear and doubt threatened to overwhelm her _I have no choice_.

The next few weeks passed quickly for Joan and Sherlock. Joan did not tell him of her pregnancy, but maintained their working relationship. They continued working together on cases, but he noticed that she had begun to distance herself from the more confrontational elements of what they did, which he believed to be due to her recent kidnapping and attack. Apart from this, she seemed to be almost the same as she had been before. They still maintained a strong level of platonic intimacy, and spent much time in each other's company. Sherlock's guilt was still present, and would occasionally overwhelm him, but seeing Joan almost fully recovered and immersing herself in their work reassured him significantly. Despite being a deductive genius, Sherlock's attribution of Joan's behaviour to her recent traumas left him completely blind-sided to the truth. Seeing Sherlock filled Joan with more guilt and sadness than she believed it possible to be contained within a single human being. Every time they spoke, or smiled, or confided in one another, she wished more than anything to be able to tell him about their baby. But each time the words began to form themselves, she swallowed them. Over the past few weeks she had tried desperately to convince herself to talk to Sherlock, to tell him, to hope that there was another option that they could both discuss and deal with. But every time she reached the end of this train of thought she was rocked back to a harsh reality, in which she believed that their child's safety and well-being must be the priority over all other considerations. It was not that she believed that telling Sherlock would risk their child's safety, but she feared that it would be too much for him to bear. She felt certain that he would love their child as much as she did and this, in a sense, was what led her to believe that she was making the right decision. Their child needed to be kept safe, and regardless of her tireless efforts to figure out a way to ensure that, she realised that there was only one way to ensure it safety, and this did not include the involvement of Sherlock and Joan in their child's life. In fact, it demanded the opposite. The last time Sherlock lost a person he truly loved, his life was almost destroyed by drugs. She could not bear to risk this, to risk hurting him in any way. She felt crushed, cruel and deflated every time this realisation hit her, and would often lose the calm and collected front the moment she returned back to her apartment.

During this time they had made significant progress in the case involving The Couple, which was less to do with the analysis of previous materials, but due to the fact that an incredible number of actual or attempted assassination attempts had rocked New York and several connected states. On some occasions the culprits had been careless, which was rare but notable. In other instances, a clear pattern in the MO of the subjects was discernible, and Sherlock was able to work with the team in Quantico to further develop the psychological profile of the individuals involved. It had been established that they were a couple comprised of one male and one female, between the ages of 30 and 45, and both having qualities associated with psychopathy. Also, from evidence acquired at the scene of one of the executions, it was established that the woman, who was caught on a security camera set up by an overly-suspicious local brewer, was left handed, approximately five feet four, and had long dark hair (which Sherlock argued was actually a wig, and therefore virtually useless).

Three weeks after Joan was discharged from hospital Gregson called them to the scene of a recent crime which he believed to be connected to The Couple, due to the MO, location and type of weapon. When they arrived at the scene, it struck Joan as being like nothing she had seen before. The scene was a small section of the freeway on the edge of the state, which had been taped off accordingly. There was a single large, black car which had evidently screeched to a stop at a ninety degree angle, with deep acceleration and brake marks scorched into the ground. The car had evidently increased speed about fifty to a hundred yards away, before screeching to a halt and stopping abruptly at its current location. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that an array of bullets littered the passenger's side of the car, defined by a neat line of cluster shots. One of the back windows was broken, and two of the tires were flat. This disturbing scene was made more macabre by the amount of blood which had been pooling on the floor by the front passenger seat.

"Sherlock, Miss Watson, thanks for coming so quickly" Gregson smiled, walking up to them and shaking Sherlock's hand, before resuming his fierce gum-chewing, the peppermint scent drifting through the air and making Joan feel slightly nauseous.

"Everything alright, Miss Watson?" he asked, concern and confusion etched on his face, as Joan slowly raised her gloved hand and placed it over her mouth.

"Yes, yes absolutely." She sounded less confident than she had intended, and so attempted to adopt a brighter tone with her next comment. "So what happened here?" Sherlock's attention had been focused on Joan for the entire time, and his guilt returned. The black car which had been destroyed was of a similar type to the one which Joan was rushed to the ER in, so it was not surprising that this, combined with the blood, had an effect on her. He silently cursed himself for not considering such a possibility, but offered Joan a small smile when she turned to meet his stare. Joan returned his smile and then turned back to Gregson, awaiting his response. She hoped that her morning sickness would subside soon. There were only a certain number of ways in which it could be explained away without attracting much suspicion.

"Two victims, one politician by the name of Peter Sinteri, and one of his bodyguards, one" Gregson looked down at his notes momentarily before lifting his head and continuing confidently. "... one James McJohnson. There were no witnesses and there is no CCTV for this area, but from the available evidence, and preliminary reports from the CSIs, it appears that the car was being chased by an individual on a motorbike. The driver, Mr McJohnson, evidently spotted the machine gun that the biker was carrying, and accelerated in an attempt to escape. There are two bullet holes in the back of the vehicle, which implies that it was shot at from behind, most likely during the acceleration, and then it stopped." Gregson frowned, looking from Joan to Sherlock. "And this is what we have an issue with. Why would the driver go from accelerating from a gun-toting maniac to braking quickly? And when they were being shot at, too? It doesn't make sense." Gregson rubbed his fingers across his forehead. By the time he looked back, Sherlock and Joan had left his presence and were approaching the car from the other side. Sherlock looked through the windows to the front seats. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, his head bleeding and his chest caked in blood. His right hand was on a small panel near the front of the car, implying that he had pressed one of the buttons shortly before his death. Sherlock pondered this, and then directed his attention to the passenger, the politician. He could see why this was proving a trying case for those involved. The politician, instead of facing forward or attempting to brace himself, had removed his seatbelt, and his right side was pressed against the dashboard, his entire body facing the driver. However, his head was tilted to the left, and his arm was outstretched. His eyes were staring into the back of the car, through the windscreen, his mouth slightly agape. Sherlock opened the door to the back of the car and dropped instantly to his knees, much to Joan's confusion, and began running his hand slowly across the floor. His arm reached under the seat, and pulled out a soft, fluffy object. He rose quickly, holding the object high in the air and directly his stare to Gregson.

"Captain!" he yelled, causing Gregson to turn instantly towards him. "There was a child in this car."

Fear contorted Gregson's face, and his glance shifted from Holmes' face, to the bear, and then to the dozen or so officers who were walking slowly across the scene. Gregson turned to the officers and barked out some orders, telling them that their priority was locating this child. After yelling this, he rushed over to Sherlock and Joan, the look of fear on his face being surpassed by one of confusion and perplexity.

"How can you be so sure?" He asked, straightening his tie before glancing quickly over at the men, then returning to face Sherlock.

"The acceleration and brake patterns." He replied instantly, speaking in his usual fast and animated fashion. "The only reason why a person would accelerate and then stop upon being shot at would be if they were hit with the realisation that there was no opportunity for escape. However, under the previous circumstances, the travelling of the politician with an armed bodyguard, a man taught to protect and to fight and be fearless, there was something missing from the picture. The bodyguard's finger was on a small panel near the front of the car. He was either opening a window to allow a little fresh air in before his untimely demise, or he was doing something completely different. Something, ironically, the complete opposite, and almost certainly due to the instructions of his passenger." Sherlock paused for a moment to allow his words to take effect, and Gregson and Joan maintained their focus upon him, their stares and amazement never faltering.

"He was unlocking the child-locks. This car was evidently selected for suitability rather than style, and this particular model was recently voted the best in terms of child welfare, boasting the most up to date technology in regards to central locking, et cetera." Sherlock chewed his bottom lip for a moment, his glance darting from Joan to Gregson. "The passenger, whom I assume to be the father, undid his seatbelt in order to turn to the back of the car and communicate with his child. I imagine the conversation was short, brief and incredibly one sided. He ordered the bodyguard to pull over in order to allow the child to escape. The car was being shot at from the back, placing the child quite literally in the line of fire. Both men, in the space of one hundred yards, collaborated to sacrifice themselves to protect this child." Sherlock paused, reclined slightly on his heels, then forced a small smile and resumed talking. Gregson questioned whether he was certain of this, before nodding his head silently in agreement.

"I am certain, Captain." He replied instantly, his voice adopting a quieter, notably respectful tone. "These men sacrificed everything to give this child its only chance at living." Sherlock's gaze fell from Gregson's face and wandered to the two men in the car. "One would hope that we all have a tenth of their courage." As he said this, appearing to be lost in his own words, one of the police officers yelled for the Captain. All three turned to see an incredible sight. A small boy, no older than three or four years of age, was being held tightly to the chest of a tall, stocky police officer. The child was completely unharmed, and apparently unaware of the nature of the scene in front of him. Joan moved instantly from Sherlock's side and approached the officer and the child, hoping to assist them in any way she could, medical or otherwise. As she placed her hand on his head, and saw his large brown eyes meet her own, she recalled Sherlock's words about the bravery of the men who had saved this child's life. Her eyes filled with tears as she gently lifted the child from the officer's arms. She held him close to her cheek, whispering comforting words to him, and tried desperately to conceal the tears which were running down her cheeks.


	8. Chapter 8

The last case had a deep and lasting affect on Joan, and was in the forefront of her mind and her thoughts for the next month or so. It was a case which had filled her both with certainty and doubt of her decision in almost equal measures. Some of her concerns about Sherlock's anger or sadness at her making such a large decision by herself was displaced, and replaced with the belief that he would understand, and perhaps even agree with her. He had clearly approved of what those two men did to protect the child, and she hoped that he would feel similarly about her own decision. When the guilt and uncertainty crept in, Joan was able to handle it much easier and much more effectively than she had been able to before. Where she had previously cursed herself for being selfish and unfair, she now told herself that the decision she was making was not only the right one, but one that Sherlock would approve of. By not telling him, and not directly seeking his input, she was shielding him from the pain of the decision itself, something which she was dealing with on a daily basis. It was the harshest, most indescribable pain that she could possibly describe, and it often took her breath away. But as she felt her stomach growing slightly, and her shape subtly changing, she was reassured of the decision, and reminded of why she was making it.

Since the last case Joan and Sherlock had been extremely busy and worked tirelessly. They had firmly established that the previous case was the work of The Couple, with Sherlock deducing that the bullet patterns on the car pointed towards a left-handed shooter with the same gun type and MO. The little boy, whose name was Jacob, was reunited with his mother, who had launched herself at Watson and embraced her firmly, repeating the words "thank you, oh my God thank you, thank you" as she fought back her tears. Watson faced the same battle, too.

In the weeks that followed Sherlock and Joan worked on several other cases, the majority of which were connected to The Couple. From this, they were able to build a greater understanding of their motivations and the pattern of their crimes. Hey appeared to be tackling high-ranking political and legal officials who had strong ties to international organisations in relation to their chosen fields. Most of their victims were attacked in solitary places which they visited routinely, but several were not. Some of the victims were found at a location which they were not known to visit, and the nature and circumstances of their presence there was a complete mystery. After reviewing the evidence, it was clear that the sole perpetrator of these offences was the left-handed female member of The Couple. Very little was known about her, and even less about her male accomplice. Small sections of CCTV, the odd witness statement, and infrequent pieces of evidence left at the scene worked to further develop an understanding of her. Her age and height had already been confirmed, as well as her left-handedness, but relatively little else was known about her. In each instance, according to the evidence, she wore a different wig. Different types, styles and colours. But her height, weight and posture always revealed her to be the same woman. A woman who, according to recent psychological profilers who had been enlisted by Gregson, was considered to be a psychopath. Despite their attempts to keep the case from the press, it had leaked, causing a great deal of panic from all sections of society. One of the most notable changes was the prominent level of distrust and uncertainty which permeated the precinct, legal chambers, and political headquarters. Everyone was afraid, uncertain of who to trust, and wary of their own vulnerability. It created a troubling and almost hostile environment in some places, which Gregson commented upon extensively and with great concern in each of his meetings with Joan and Watson.

Sherlock and Joan were currently at the former's brownstone, Sherlock in his armchair and Joan perched lightly on the edge of the red sofa, leaning forward slightly, her hands clasped tightly. Both of their attention was fixed upon the wall near the fireplace, which was completely covered with papers and photographs relating to The Couple. The wall was more completely covered than Joan had ever seen it, and the pages were slowly creeping across adjoining walls. She and Sherlock had been reviewing their current knowledge of the case, of those affected, and were considering their next move. Unfortunately, it often felt as though they were powerless to act until another incident occurred, from which more information could be obtained. With each case came more information, which Sherlock never failed to obtain. Joan had remained by his side for the last few weeks, arriving at the brownstone early in the morning and leaving in the late evening, never staying over, despite how tired she felt herself becoming as soon as the sun began to set. The prospect of staying over at Sherlock's troubled her for several reasons. Mainly it was due to her innate sense of guilt at the secret she was keeping from him. She felt almost as if staying there overnight was adding to her betrayal. The main reason, though, was her concern that he would realise that she was pregnant if she stayed. A strange, confused logic led to this assertion. Despite no longer suffering from morning sickness, Joan was afraid of feeling unwell in his presence, of sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat, or of him coming into her room in the morning and her secret being betrayed by fallen blankets which revealed the new curves of her abdomen.

After they had remained seated and silent for a few minutes, their discussion and ideas sinking in, Sherlock tapped his foot nervously on the floor, causing Joan to raise her head and focus on her friend.

"Sherlock?" she asked tiredly. It was gone seven in the evening and she felt completely drained. Sherlock's attention turned to her, as he shifted in his seat before turning to face her, his keen, intelligent eyes surveying her.

"Are you quite alright, Watson? You appear to be very tired." His tone was normal, not etched with fear or suspicion, for which she was grateful.

"Yes, I just didn't sleep too well last night." she smiled at him, trying to appear more awake.

"Watson, there was something I wished to discuss with you. Something which, I fear, I have been putting off for some time, out of fear of upsetting you. Why don't you rest here, and we can discuss things when you are suitably more awake?" His tone was softer, gentler. He was sounding kind, but Joan detected just the slightest degree of guilt in his voice.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, but thank you. I have to visit a friend this evening, so sleep is off the cards for the time being" she began, worry creeping through her chest and causing the muscles in her abdomen to clench. She was afraid that he was beginning to realise that something was different with her. The way he was looking at her, his eyes revealing both fear and concern, caused her breath to catch in her throat, and her heart to ache. "What is it?"

He stared at her for a few moments longer in the same way, before turning his head back, facing the large window, and tapping his foot several times upon the cold floor. "I did not raise the issue as I did not wish to concern you, but I believe the time has now come for us to address it." He returned his stare from the window to Watson's face, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. All Watson could do was keep the same concerned albeit confident expression, and pray that he hadn't realised what she had been desperately trying to conceal. _Oh God._ She thought over and over again.

Sherlock shifted in his armchair so that the chair moved slightly across the floor and was directly facing Joan. He clasped his hands in his lap as she herself had done, and was staring at her intently. His eyes were wide and impassive, and for once she could not detect the emotions which lay behind them.

"Watson-" he began, before pursing his lips momentarily and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, before sinking slowly back. "Who are you visiting?" Joan was thrown by this question. It was not what she had expected him to ask, and she could tell from the shift in his demeanour that it was not what he wished to discuss with her, but was merely something that he was curious about.

"I'm seeing an old friend from med school. We've been meaning to catch up for a while now, but neither of us have had the time. I'm seeing her in an hour." She sounded confident and sincere, her tone and words not betraying her, mainly because it was the truth. Well, partly, at least.

"Right." he smiled, seeming to relax more as he separated his fingers and rested his own arms of the arms of the chair. "Watson, I have been reviewing the details of your... of your attack" he paused for a moment before turning to her, considering her expression. Her eyes widened and confusion was etched upon her face.

"I thought the police were handling that?" she replied innocently. "You don't have to concern yourself with that, we have much bigger-"

"There is nothing bigger and nothing more important that I can think worthy of investigating." Sherlock stated this immediately, his tone firm but kind, and with a hint of emotion. "Someone hurt you, Watson. And I have been working on ascertaining who it was and why. And I have begun to realise that, as I had feared, it is not unconnected to our current case."

Watson looked up at him. She was grateful that he had looked into her case, and was surprised that she had found it to be such a shock to her. She had just assumed it was an ordinary street mugging, and that the police would work on it for a while, before running out of leads and abandoning it. The attack itself was not something which she had been focusing the majority of her attention on in recent weeks. It was not something she wished to readdress, either.

"Not unconnected? What do you mean?" she asked, shifting slightly and crossing her arms. "You think it was linked to The Couple? But why?"

Sherlock waited for a moment before responding, his steely gaze never leaving her face. "Watson, your attacker was dressed all in black, attacked during the day, and was left-handed. I reviewed the evidence from the scene, as well as the knife which was recovered, and discovered the weapon to be of the same origin as the other weapons used in various assassination attempts. The height of the attacker, and the various physical details we know about them from the CCTV footage available, is also consistent with the woman we are searching for. What is unclear, and what has made this much more difficult to investigate, is that fact that she used a knife." He looked to the ground for a moment, composing himself. "She wanted to be close to you when she..." he broke off, raising his hands and then clasping them. "But I still cannot fathom why. It does not make sense. You are not consistent with the other victims of this couple, and her interest in you seemed deeply personal."

Joan stared at him with wide eyes, disbelief and confusion etched upon her face. The thought that the cases were connected had never occurred to her and she, like Sherlock, remained utterly perplexed. She sighed slowly before looking up at Sherlock, whose eyes betrayed his deep concern.

"Watson, if anything were to happen to you-"

"Nothing will happen to me." She cut him off, speaking confidently. So confidently, in fact, that she almost believed herself. "There have been no other attempts or signs that they are the least part interested in me. It could have been a warning that they feel was enough to unnerve and confuse us. Possibly to get us to abandon the case, or maybe to have the effect it had. To cause confusion which would distract us so that we would not see the bigger picture." Her eyes glistened with realisation, and she felt certain that what she was saying was true. Her attack was personal in the sense that it was aimed at her and Sherlock, a ploy intended on confusing them and drawing their attention away from the actions of The Couple. "We should meet in the morning and go over everything again."

Sherlock had remained very still as he listened to her talking. Her thoughts had, of course, already occurred to him. "I believe you may be correct, but I also think that this is an area where we are also not seeing the bigger picture." He seemed frightened, concerned, and more nervous than she had ever seen him.

"I will be fine, Sherlock. I am with you during the day, and we are both constantly surrounded by protection officers, the police and others. We are protected."

"You had minders last time, too." He said, the words barely audible.

"Our protective detail has been doubled and our household securities improved. There have been no signs in the last two months that we are in personal or immediate danger." She sounded much more confident than she felt, and her folded arms had fell lower to cover her stomach. Her still folded arms against her abdomen reassured her, and she felt safer, stronger. "I should get going, I'm meeting my friend soon and her house is quite out of the way, and I need to go home and change first." She leant down and picked up her bag and searching through it for her keys.

Sherlock had remained silent for the last few minutes, and watched her as she searched for her keys. He mused over not only the fact that she was clearly tired, but that she was trying to conceal it. He deduced that her apparent ambivalence to her own safety, and to the threat to her safety, was merely an act. He imagined her now, at her home, alone, unable to sleep. He hoped that by solving her case he could give her some peace, but now, he realised, he may have made it even harder for her. As she rose from the couch he stood up mechanically and walked her to the door. They lingered in the doorway for a moment, his concerned eyes burning into hers. She offered him yet another one of her sweet smiles and rubbed his arm reassuringly, before descended the steps and getting into her car.

As Watson drove out of the street, she saw Sherlock in her rear view mirror. He was stood outside the brownstone, watching out for her until she was out of sight. She was unnerved by this most recent piece of news, and it was the last thing she needed on top of all the other concerns she had. She was thinking of what he had just revealed to her as she drove home. As she parked just outside her apartment, she removed the key from the ignition and sighed deeply. She just needed to get through tonight, and she would feel much better. She needed to change, make herself appear more presentably, and then go to visit her old medical professor, Jane Holloway. She had arranged their meeting several days ago, and was awaiting it with both fear and excitement. She hoped that Professor Holloway, whom she had been very close to during her time at med school as well as her residency, would accept her request.

Joan removed her hands from the steering wheel and walked slowly up the stairs to her apartment building. She strolled through the long corridor, stood impassively in the elevator, and pressed the third button from the left. As the elevator pinged at her destination, she walked out tiredly, but immediately froze. The door to her apartment was wide open. Fear gripped her, but she was not disarmed. She walked slowly forward, and stopped a few inches from the door. She paused for a few moments and, when she was certain that there was no noise from inside,, opened the door further. Her apartment had been broken into and completely overturned. Furniture was overturned, glass broken and drawers and cupboards opened wide. On the table to the right of the door was a floating piece of paper which seemed oddly out of place among the debris. Watson entered slowly and placed her hand on the paper. To her horror, she noticed that the paper was attached to the wooden table by a knife which had secured it to the dark wood. Watson recognised the knife immediately, as being identical to the one used in her own attack. She lifted the paper slowly and gazed thoughtfully upon the five words which had been written upon in using a type writer of some description. 'Until next time, Miss Watson'.


	9. Chapter 9

Joan stared at the paper for what felt like an eternity, before gradually shifting her attention to the blade which had secured it on one of her late grandmother's old tables. The sight of the knife affected her more than she thought was possible, and it led her to remember the night that she had been trying so hard to block out. Once more she relived the sight of the blade, the threat to her life, and the pain that almost completely consumed her. She drew her dark jacket tightly across her before wrapping her left arm across her abdomen which, considering the fact the she was current four months pregnant, was only slightly more curved than it had been. Although she was able to notice and feel the subtle changes, she doubted that it was possible for anyone else to. Not even Sherlock. _Especially not Sherlock_, she mused sadly. She reached her right hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone, typing in one of the numbers she knew by heart. It rang twice before it was answered, and relief swept through her as she heard his voice. "Sherlock, I... there's a problem, could you please come over?" she tried to hide the fear in her voice, but even beneath her confident bravado, Sherlock detected her anxiousness.

"Of course, what has happened, Watson? Are you quite alright?" he replied instantly, with a slightly concerned note perceptible in his tone.

"Fine, I'm fine. It's my apartment. Someone broke has broken in, trashed it and left a note with a... with a knife. It's the same type that was recovered from the scene of... of my attack." Joan closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, bowing her head slightly as she wrapped her arm more tightly across her abdomen. She pursed her lips and was about to speak again when Sherlock's voice broke the temporary silence.

"I'll be there at once, Watson. Call one of your security details, they should be right outside your building." Like Watson, Holmes tried to appear calm and collected, but he was seething. Furious, and full of fear. These emotions were impossible to remove from his tone, and they pained Joan to hear.

"Of course, yeah... yeah I will. Thank you." She was about to hang up when he spoke once more.

"Joan, just hold on. I'll be there in a few minutes, and we will fix this. I promise." She smiled, thanked him, and hung up. She followed his instructions and rang William from her cell phone, who immediately left Jessica in the car and raced to her apartment. Before he could get there, Joan made one more call. She dialled the number of Professor Holloway, apologised profusely, and asked if she could possibly reschedule for the next day. The Professor consented, and Joan thanked her. By the time she had hung up the phone William was by her side, and gently moved her out of the doorway and into the corridor. He drew a gun from his side and slowly entered the apartment, examining each room thoroughly yet efficiently. By the time he had finished, and informed Joan that the living area and kitchen were the only rooms affected, Sherlock had arrived.

He walked briskly towards them, his broad shoulders set and his arms firmly by his side. His face betrayed no emotion, but as soon as he approached Joan, his features were awash with concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, his eyes darting across her body before resting upon her face.

"Yes, I'm fine. It was like this when I got back. I didn't touch anything, apart from the paper. The note is on the table to the right of the door." She spoke solemnly, and sounded more tired than Sherlock had ever heard her sound. Her eyes were shining and glassy, and her arms were crossed and held tightly to her chest. "William checked out the apartment, said everything else is fine, it's just these rooms that were affected. I guess it was more to send a message than to search for something. Not that we have anything they would be interested in." She rubbed her temples with her right hand before brushing some hair behind her ear, then turned her attention to Sherlock, who was watching her intently.

"Watson, I don't want you to stay here. Would you allow me to escort you back to the brownstone?" he instantly regretted his choice of words, feeling as though he had come across more forceful and declarative than he had intended. He was genuinely concerned for her safety and well-being, and did not wish for her to be alone. "For as long as you feel comfortable, of course. At least until we are able to confirm that your apartment is fine." He paused momentarily, and looked from Joan to the apartment, and back to her. When he saw her face once more, she was running her hand through her hair once more. A nervous habit of hers which she seldom resorted to unless she was incredibly agitated. He hoped that she would consent to return to the brownstone with him, although he half expected her to decline. She had not stayed at the brownstone overnight since they had slept together all those months ago which, he suspected, was due to her feelings of regret, or perhaps she found it difficulty to stay overnight in his home. He was not completely sure, and did not press the issue, not wishing to make her feel more uncomfortable or distressed. He broke out of this thought pattern and returned to the matter at hand.

"Or, if you would prefer, I could take you to stay with a friend? Or your parents?"

She smiled gratefully at him before shifting slightly against the wall. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind me staying with you for the night, that would be great. But are you sure that you-"

"More than sure, Watson." He interjected, speaking kindly as he rocked back on his heels before clasping his hands together. "I would like nothing more than to know that you are safe, and that you feel safe. The two being quite different things, yet the latter is just as important." He punctuated the last word with a short tutting sound, before turning towards her once more.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She smiled tiredly at him, running her left hand up her right arm and turning slightly to the left. "I just need to pack a few things, would you mind?"

"Not at all. I'll call Gregson and get them to come at once." He plucked his phone from his pocket and began to dial. "I'll see you shortly."

Watson entered her apartment, with William as an escort, and quickly packed a bag. She felt incredibly conflicted about spending the night at Sherlock's, and was terrified that it would lead to her secret being revealed. She could sense the concern in his voice, his careful yet deliberate choosing of words which conveyed his hope of her staying, yet his desire for her not to feel pressured. She appreciated that a great deal, and she did not wish him to feel that she did not want to spend time with him, or that she was averse to staying at the brownstone due to some personal reason. If she was being honest, she wanted to stay. As much as she liked living by herself, the safety and security she felt with him, and the easiness with which she felt at comfortable and able to be herself in his presence, was something she craved, especially now. She thought that it would be good for them both to spend some more time together. They could talk, like they used to. Or even just sit in silence, with the fire burning and the ran tapping gently against the window, simply enjoying the fact that they were both there. Together.

As she left the apartment she found that Sherlock had remained in the same spot. His hands tapping on his phone, which he was staring at curiously. Upon hearing the sound of her heels in the hallway he looked up and walked slowly towards her. He reached out a hand and took her bag from her before standing by her side.

"You're sure you are quite alright?" he spoke softly, as sweetly and as kindly as she had ever heard.

"Yes. Shall we go?"

The drive back to the brownstone was short and filled with silence. Both Joan and Sherlock were thinking of the break in, their minds consumed with worry and fear. Especially Joan. But Joan's thoughts shifted back to what she was thinking about when packing her clothes and toiletries. She was thinking about the baby and, not for the first time, she was seriously considering the decision she had made, the one that she had excluded Sherlock from. She had not done it out of spite or arrogance, but out of love and compassion. Her desire to protect both him and the baby was overwhelming, but she was constantly questioning whether the choices she was making were right. For a moment, she thought that tonight might have happened for a reason. Maybe she was supposed to go back with him, and tell him the truth. Maybe this was a sign that she was supposed to confide in him and hope that he would be able to help her to figure everything out. Her hands had been entwined on her lap, but she moved her right hand to her neck and began fiddling with the pendant she was wearing.

Sherlock, brought out from his reverie by the sound of the locket moving across the delicate chain, turned to face Joan. Her eyes were wide and she no longer appeared tired like before. But there was something. He could sense her fear, her discomfort. Without even thinking, he reached out his hand and placed it on her right hand, which was resting on her lap. She moved her hand so that her palm was facing upwards, and they entwined their fingers, with Sherlock squeezing her hand comfortingly. She could feel his energy and his love radiate through her fingertips, and she once again remembered their night together. They remained like this for several minutes, neither of them speaking, the silence remaining unbroken. Joan even released her pendant.

It was nine o'clock by the time they arrived at the brownstone. As William parked the car he adjusted his mirror. As he did so, he noticed the entwined hands of Joan and Sherlock, and he smiled. "We're here." He announced, as neither of them appeared to realise that the car was no longer moving. They slowly disentangled their hands and exited the car, with Sherlock retrieving Joan's bag and carrying it towards the apartment.

Joan slowly shut the car door before turning to find Sherlock by her side. However, his attention was focused on the doorway to his brownstone. As she followed his confused expression, Joan saw that Captain Gregson and Detective Bell were standing on his doorstep, their backs facing Sherlock and herself.

"Captain Gregson!" Sherlock called, walking slowly towards the steps. "I thought you were going to Miss Watson's apartment. What is it? What's happened?"

"I was, Holmes. I had to send some other officers in my place. There's been an incident, less than an hour ago." Gregson appeared tired and drawn, concern etched upon his face. "The DA has been shot, in his office down town." By this time, Sherlock and Joan had ascended the steps and were stood next to Gregson and Bell, listening intently.

"The DA? Jack Marsden?" Sherlock seemed shocked, and Joan detected a tinge of sadness in his voice. "What happened exactly, Captain?"

Gregson shifted on his feet before turning to Bell, and gesturing towards the car. "If you guys would come down town with us, it would be a huge help. We can explain on the way."

Sherlock and Joan acquiesced, but not before Sherlock opened the door to the brownstone and deposited Joan's bag inside, before joining her and the police officers and following them to the car, where they embarked upon another ominous journey, with all parties fearing the destination. During the ride, Gregson explained that the DA had been working late in his office, and was last seen by a security guard, who saw him leave one of the bathrooms. The guard said that he appeared to be tired, concerned and "frazzled". Thirty minutes later, the same security guard responded to a loud popping sound which came from one of the upstairs offices, which he instantly identified as a gunshot. Remembering his encounter with the DA, he made a beeline for the latter's office. Inside, he found the DA slumped over a desk, blood pooling, the window wide open.

"Has suicide been ruled out?" Asked Joan as the group were led towards his office.

"The trajectory of the bullet shows that it was physically impossible for the injury to be self inflicted," Bell replied, as if quoting the medical examiner. "He was shot once in the chest from a distance of approximately three feet, with a weapon consistent with those used in other murders by The Couple."

"So you're certain this is related?" Joan asked, looking from Gregson to Bell.

"Yes, Miss Watson" replied Gregson curtly, as if this was not the first time he had been asked that this evening. "The victim profile, MO and weapon are consistent with The Couple. This was a brazen, cold and calculated attack, and I think we can all agree that they are escalating. They have gone from attacking individuals in isolated areas to coming into a courthouse, full of security guards, and killing one of the highest-ranking legal professionals in the state." Gregson led the others into the room, and stood in the doorway as Sherlock examined the scene, with Watson heading straight for the body. The room was fairly large and square, with the desk at the back of the room in front of the open window, the dead man's body bathed in moonlight, which danced across the half a dozen open files which were splattered with blood. The walls were covered with bookshelves with various old editions of legal texts prominently displayed, and the thick blue carpet offset the artwork which hung elegantly upon the walls.

"There is something else you should both know." Gregson spoke cautiously, uncertainty clear in his voice.

"And what is that, Captain?" asked Sherlock, who looked up instantly. Joan slowly diverted her attention from the body and towards Gregson, whose arms were now folded tightly against his chest. "The computer tech guys have already taken a quick look at the DA's computer. The last thing he did on his computer before he died was access a classified legal archive on various persons of interest to the police, legal profession, and American government." Gregson paused slightly as Holmes and Watson continued to stare patiently at him. "The last thing he looked at was your personnel files. Everything relating to your lives, your assistance to the police, and your role in the legal well-being of this city. The documents he viewed are classified, detailed, and potentially explosive. And we cannot guarantee that our killer did not take advantage of this opportunity."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock and Joan spent just under three hours in the late DA's office, surveying the scene and discussing their findings with various medical and legal personnel. The medical staff confirmed that the DA died at 8.30pm that evening, that the cause of death was a bullet wound to the chest which struck his heart and caused massive haemorrhaging, and that the assailant was stood between three and four feet away at the time. From this point of view, the medical evidence was of little use. However, what was of interest, and what had engaged the concerns of Sherlock and Joan, was the DA's laptop. The news of the DA's interest in them was both confusing and seemingly inexplicable. The fact that he was researching them shortly before his death was equally as mystifying, and drew Joan and Sherlock further in to the depths of the latest occurrence in the current chain of events. Twenty minutes after the IT technicians entered the room and studied the laptop, as Sherlock stood near the text and surveyed the small stack of files, the mystery was finally beginning to unravel.

A search of the laptop's history, as well as the files on the desk, revealed much about the late DA's activities and the reason for him being at the courthouse so late at night. The cases and individuals being researched, as well as the cases on the desk, provided evidence which strongly suggested that the DA was mounting a private investigation into The Couple, and that he was reviewing cold cases which he believed could be linked to them. The DA was reaching out to various contacts in the FBI, CIA and Interpol, and was building international bridges, all in the sanctity of his own office. Interviews with individuals close to the DA, including family members, friends and colleagues, revealed him to be a traditional, patriotic former war-hero whose faith in the law and justice was matched by his strong belief and love for his country. Clearly, he was an individual concerned with the well-being of those who shared his dreams and ambitions, who were being attacked and brought down by two assailants. He also realised that the attacks on these individuals had a direct affect on the lives of others. His desire to protect his country, as well as the institutions which were designed to protect the people, led to him orchestrating his own investigation. He was able to utilise his own vast knowledge, experience and international connections in order to make significant headway in the investigation. Shortly after this was realised, it was established that he kept his findings and his research out of the public domain, as he sensed the growing uncertainty and distrust which was present within all legal and governmental institutions. However, he did enlist the help of four individuals whom he trusted implicitly in order to aid his investigation. These individuals included two judges, Alan Robertson and Richard Ligardo; an ADA named Amelia Van Kamp, and a private investigator called Justin Reynolds. Based on the depth and breadth of research the DA had stored in various files on his laptop, and based on the dozens of cases he had clearly reviewed, this elite group of investigators had been on the case almost since its beginning. Joan, Sherlock and the NYPD were keen to meet with these individuals: to study their characters, their knowledge of the DA and his work, and to share information in a hope to progress further in the case.

Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan discussed this issue and agreed that, in the interests of the case, they would arrange a clandestine meeting to take place between the formerly mentioned individuals and the four people who were working with the DA. In the interests of safety and privacy, it was decided that this meeting was to take place at the brownstone the next day at six o'clock in the evening. Until then, the team was to survey the available information, consider the DA's case and his findings, and then regroup at Sherlock's at the decided time. Gregson stated that he would arrange the meeting, and urged Sherlock and Joan to go home, rest, and prepare themselves. He also informed Joan that her case was also being investigated, and that he would personally ensure that her apartment was restored to its former state, and that she would be entitled to additional security details if she desired. She thanked him kindly but declined his last request, insisting that she was sufficiently protected.

It was just after midnight before Sherlock and Joan were able to return to the brownstone, armed with photocopies of various files, photographs of the most recent crime scene, an extensive inventory, and a duplicate of the DA's hard-drive. By the time William had driven them back, Watson's former tiredness had returned with a vengeance. Her mouth felt dry, her limbs were heavy and she was physically and emotionally exhausted. Sherlock held the door to the brownstone open and she crept slowly through the corridor, depositing her stack of heavy files on the kitchen table, before slowly sinking into a nearby chair. Sherlock followed behind her slowly, and cautiously watched her. Something wasn't right. He had never seen her like this before, so silent and dejected. He felt certain that he was missing something, that there was something she needed help with.

"Watson, I know I have asked you this several times in the past few hours, but are you certain that you are alright?" He kept a respectable distance from her, standing with his files in the doorway. She looked across the room towards him, resting her head on her hand. The kindness and compassion in his eyes made her want to run to him and embrace him, to throw herself into his arms, cry solidly for several hours, and seek his help and his comfort. But the same look in his eyes reminded her of exactly the reason why she could not do that. She would not risk his well-being, health or stability, regardless of what that meant to her own.

"I'm fine, really. It's just been a long and eventful, complicated day. And instead of falling into bed like a normal person would I have to sift through this mountain of files." She ran her fingers up the stack which she had just deposited on the table, the sound of her nails hitting the paper creating a sharp scratching sound.

"You should rest, Watson. It's been a long day for you." He replied in the same kind and compassionate tone, which touched Joan deeply. She went from feeling empowered by it to feeling guilt-ridden and unworthy of such kindness.

"Yeah, well it's been a difficult day for us both. No rest for the wicked." She smiled sweetly at him before picking the first file off the pile and placing it down in front of her. She drew a notepad and pen from her purse, removed the lid of the pen, and began to read.

Sherlock watched her for a few moments before placing his own files on his armchair before walking briskly through the living area and towards the kitchen. This fast and confident movement caught Joan's attention, and she rose her head tiredly from the file. Sherlock stood in front of her for a few moments, once again considering all the signs of her tiredness. Her body was screaming for release, pleading for rest, and she was denying it to herself. He took a few steps closer until they were merely inches apart, before reaching down and gently prising the file from her fingertips. She appeared to be mildly irritated, but he knew that she was far too tired to maintain a lengthy or developed argument on the matter. "Your mind will be much more able to deal with the material and the meeting if you are sufficiently rested." He stated, standing tall in front of her, his arms fixed firmly by his sides. "And it is not simply your intellectual prowess that I am concerned with" he began, his gaze temporarily faltering. "I am concerned about you." She nodded slowly, dropped her pen on the desk and pushed herself back in her chair, accepting defeat. His words had touched her deeply, and she wanted to reassure him in any way she could.

"I'll set an alarm for six, and I do not expect it to be tampered with." She rose slowly from her seat, drawing her jacket closer around her.

Sherlock nodded in approval. "Agreed. Thank you." He watched her as she left the room, and remained still until he heard her bedroom door slowly close. He then took up her seat, drew the stack towards him, and began to analyse them.

Joan slept soundly through the night and took great offence to her alarm waking her at six in the morning. She shifted slowly in her bed, and was about to remove her blankets from her body when she saw Sherlock's silhouette in an armchair near the window. She shifted into a seating position and drew her blankets closer to her, wrapping them around her abdomen.

"Good morning, Watson." Sherlock chirped happily, quickly rising from his seat and approaching her bed. "I took the liberty of reviewing all files and making concise notes. When you are ready, we can discuss the findings when you are ready." He leaned back on his heels before straightening his arms, nodding and leaving her room. As he left, fear gripped her. She was afraid of what he could have seen. What if he saw her stomach? What if he worked it out? She quickly assured herself this was not the case, his demeanour was consistent with his usual manner, and he appeared satisfyingly happy and laid back. Joan turned slowly and placed her legs over the edge of the bed, before pulling down the baggy grey shirt she was wearing. She held the sides of the shirt and pulled it tightly against her abdomen, watching as the material clung to the visible curve of her stomach. Her rounded stomach was only noticeable when she wore tight fitting material, and even then it was not something that everyone would notice. However, there was no doubt in her mind that Sherlock would notice. She rested both her hands upon her abdomen, inhaled sharply, and then proceeded to run her fingertips gently across her stomach, before resting her hands at the bottom of her abdomen. "I'm sorry" she mumbled, in a tone that was barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

Joan showered and dressed herself within half an hour before joining Sherlock in the kitchen. They discussed the cases for over an hour, with Watson picking up the case files Sherlock was referring to, skimming through them and asking questions, offering interpretations and comparing it to their current knowledge. From what they had seen so far, the DA and his team were making significant progress. They had reviewed cases which went back twelve months, and had located fifty three which had potential links to The Couple. During the night, Sherlock had solved four of these cases and identified nine more which were also unrelated, meaning that there were forty cases to discuss with the others when they arrived. Joan and Sherlock reviewed the cases all day, and established that at least half of them were the work of The Couple.

By half past five Gregson and Bell had arrived, as well as Alfredo, whose presence Sherlock did not explain. By six o'clock the four individuals who were the trusted allies of the DA had arrived. The first to arrive was Judge Alan Robertson, a tall, slim man in his mid fifties with a dark beard and commanding manner. He wore a dark, tailored suit and accepted a cup of black coffee upon his entry into the brownstone. He sat on the couch in the seat closest to the window, and perused the titles of some of the books on Sherlock's second and third shelves with great interest and admiration. Judge Richard Ligardo and an ADA named Amelia Van Kamp arrived together five minutes later. He was younger, between forty five and fifty, with sandy hair which was slightly grey. He was tall, athletically-built and had a notable air of arrogance. He had risen quickly within the legal profession and was held in high esteem by his colleagues and all who met him. ADA Van Kamp was a woman with a similar reputation. She had long, dark hair which she kept in a tight, elegant bun, with a few dark curls falling gently by her cheeks. She had large blue eyes and a charming and endearing manner. She was very slim and wore a bespoke black jacket, tight trousers and designer heels. They gratefully accepted some coffee from Sherlock, before moving into the living area. They greeted their fellow legal professional with warm sincerity, before sitting next to him on the couch. Justin Reynolds arrived a few minutes later, and was very different to the three people who had just passed into the room. He was young, between twenty and twenty five, with shoulder-length dark hair, and dressed in a manner not totally dissimilar to Sherlock. Joan smiled at him as she offered him some tea, which he gratefully accepted, before flashing her a bright, infectious smile. Solely in terms of appearance, he reminded Joan slightly of a younger, laid back, surfer-version of Sherlock. It was ironic, then, that their latest guest strolled confidently into the living area and perched himself comfortably on the arm of Sherlock's armchair, much to the latter's chagrin.

The group greeted each other civilly, but it was clear, despite sharing the same concerns and interests, that there were concerns and suspicions on both sides. The two judges seemed uncertain of Sherlock's legitimacy, although they did state that the DA had mentioned him and Watson to them, and had displayed a great sense of faith and respect in them and their work. Over the next couple of hours the discussion was lengthy and detailed. The group shared their findings and pooled their information relating to both the psychological profile of The Couple, as well as their MO. It turned out that the information established by both sides was almost identical, no more significant information having been mentioned. One thing that was discussed was the nature of the relationship between The Couple. Sherlock and Joan believed that it was possible that they had a physical connection, but thought it more likely that their relationship was one based on a different type of power and lust. The Judges agreed, the ADA remained on the fence, but the PI revealed his strong belief that their relationship was sexual. He had no evidence to back this up, arguing simply that a relationship between two individuals whose closeness was necessary to their work was almost impossible to relegate to a non-physical nature. Sherlock nodded, replied curtly, and quickly moved on. Joan, on the other hand, shifted slightly in her seat, and looked around the room at anything that was not a large, red couch. The conversation was productive and relatively useful, and both parties knew that it was more of an introductory session than true meeting of minds. They agreed to continue their own research and work, and regroup in three days time at the brownstone. They exchanged details and shook hands before departing. The police left first, followed by the two judges. The PI stayed for a few minutes to talk to Joan (he was being flirtatious which, ordinarily, would not have bothered her too much. But under the circumstances, it perplexed her).

Shortly after the PI left, Sherlock and Joan walked into the living area and joined ADA Amelia Van Kamp, who had remained behind, and was staring thoughtfully out of the window.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not usually one to linger." She flashed a bright smile at Sherlock before tentatively adjusting her hair. "It's just, I thought I should mention... I didn't know if it was relevant, but..." her smile faltered and her eyes began to fill with tears. Joan moved slowly towards her, and placed a hand comfortingly on one of her shoulders, before escorting her back to the couch.

"It's alright, take your time." Joan offered her a smile, and joined her on the couch. Sherlock stood in Van Kamp's former position near the window, his attention fixed upon the weeping legal professional.

"Jack and I... we were close. Very close, actually." She let out a short, nervous laugh as she wiped the tears from her cheek, her bright eyes glistening as she looked from Joan to Sherlock.

"We became close during our time together working on this project. I specialise in cases involving human rights, and often involve myself in a fair amount of pro bono work. We shared a connection. We both noticed something odd was occurring, and we began working together about six months ago. Shortly afterwards we recruited the others, realising that it was much bigger than we thought." She smiled reflectively, before rising from her seat and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Jack was a good man, a great man. There was a lot at stake but he didn't care, we just wanted to make it right." She shrugged simply, and inhaled sharply to prevent herself from crying more. "We have to continue his work. We need to make this right."

"We will, Miss Van Kamp, I can assure you of that." Sherlock replied kindly, as she smiled gratefully up at him. Joan rose from the sofa and offered Amelia her sincerest condolences, told her to call her personally if there was anything she needed, and reassured her that they would not rest until they had brought The Couple to justice. Amelia thanked her sincerely, and was then escorted from the brownstone by Sherlock. Joan sat back on the sofa, the warm cushions drawing her back. She looked up to see Alfredo standing next to her. He smiled and joined her on the couch.

"It's great to see you, Alfredo." She stated kindly, which was rewarded with a kind smile.

"And you, Miss Watson. As I'm sure you've guessed, Sherlock has been enlisting my services in this matter, and some others, every since the beginning." Joan smiled and nodded, surprised that this had not occurred to her before. She was about to reply when Sherlock re-entered the room and paused in front of Joan and Alfredo, his arms hanging by his sides, his focus shifting onto Joan.

"I just received a phone call from Detective Bell. He says that your apartment has been analysed and cleaned, and is now perfectly habitable once more. He says that you are free to move back whenever you like." He tried to smile, but Joan could detect the suppressed sadness that he was attempting to mask. "However, if you would like to join Alfredo and myself for dinner, we could always-"

"Actually, I need to be off right about now." Joan began, gathering her things. "I missed my friend yesterday, and so I am visiting her this evening instead. I won't leave until late, so I think I will go back to my own apartment." She placed her bag over her shoulder and fastened the buttons on her jacket. "Thank you, Sherlock. It was lovely to see you Alfredo." Alfredo waved casually from the couch, missing the kind, concerned look which Sherlock gave to Joan.

"Take care, won't you? And please don't hesitate to call, for whatever reason. Whenever you need to."

She smiled up at him, nodding politely. "Of course, thank you. See you tomorrow."

Watson left the brownstone and drove to her former Professor's home. This time, she decided, she would go straight there. No chances would be taken, it was an appointment she had to keep. Upon arriving at the secluded old farmhouse on the outskirts of the city, Joan drove slowly into the driveway, the sound of gravel crunching under her wheels filling the otherwise silent air, and making the Professor aware of Joan's presence. As she got out of her car and walked towards the door, Joan was greeted by the kindly face of her former Professor, whose kindness, support and extensive medical knowledge had deeply affected and improved Joan's personal and professional abilities during her time as a student and a resident. The lady was now in her mid fifties, and wore long, dark skirts with elegant silk blouses, her light blonde hair tied back from her face with a ribbon. She looked younger than she was, and had pale skin, green eyes and wore a subtle, peachy lipstick. "Joan, my dear. It is so lovely to see you." Professor Holloway approached Joan slowly and cautiously, slowly extending her arms and drawing the younger woman close to her chest, before releasing her and taking a few paces back, and leading her towards the open door. "You were fairly evasive on the phone, and you sounded upset. So how can I help you?" She asked in a kind and maternal manner, the same one she adopted with the nervous students who flocked to her office.

Joan stopped as she reached the entrance to the doorway, causing Professor Holloway to turn, stand in the doorway, and offer her the same kind, welcoming smile she recognised from med school.

"Jane, I... I need help." Joan's resolve broke, and she placed a hand across her mouth to stifle the sobs. The Professor, clearly affected deeply by Joan's distress, moved towards her once more and hugged her tightly, before escorting her into the house.


	11. Chapter 11

The Professor guided Joan through the large corridor, past the stairs, and to a large room at the back of the house. It was a large, light and airy room which was comfortably furnished, and the homely feeling it exuded was amplified by the crackling fire in the ornate fireplace. The Professor led Joan towards one of the white couches and eased her into it, before taking up a space beside her.

"Joan, whatever it is, I can help you. I will help you." She spoke softly yet with an unmistakable air of confidence. She tilted her head slightly and placed her hands in her lap, waiting for Joan to speak.

Joan inhaled sharply, placed her hand over her mouth, and then exhaled deeply, leaning back slightly on the couch. "I'm sorry to impose on you like this, and for not explaining myself on the phone. But it wasn't something I have discussed with anyone, and I couldn't do it over the phone." The Professor nodded kindly, encouragingly. She was concerned and utterly perplexed. Joan had always been a conscientious, highly intelligent student, who coped with the pressures involved in her work with unfathomable strength. Despite having known her for over a decade, this was the first time she had ever seen her cry. And it was more than crying, it was a pained, deep and borderline inconsolable anguish that was tormenting Joan. Jane Holloway would do anything to fix this. Slowly, Joan began to speak again, her voice sounding very much like it usually did, although quieter and slightly more subdued. Joan explained that she was pregnant, and that the father was the man she worked with, Sherlock. She gave a veiled account of the events leading up to the night they slept together, and explained her internal conflict over the event itself. She briefly referred to her former relationship with Mycroft, and their encounter prior to the baby's conception. The Professor's eyes widened, and she questioned whether it was possible that he was the father.

"No, no definitely not." She sighed, scrunching up one of the tissues that Jane had passed her. "Mycroft had a vasectomy three years ago, and during our relationship we always practised very safe sex." She smiled slightly before looking up. "Sherlock and I did not." She stifled a small laugh, her voice catching in her throat. "Besides, during our last time together, Mycroft and I... well, we just..." she felt embarrassed, her face cheeks flushing and her voice dropping. It was like explaining yourself to a former teacher, not daunting, but difficult. "We didn't actually... I mean, we didn't..." she raised her eyes to the ceiling and dropped her palms in frustration. "What we did could not have resulted in this. We were... interrupted." She paused for a few minutes, and the Professor nodded.

"I see. And you haven't spoken to Sherlock about the baby?"

Joan could feel the tears returning to her eyes. She shook her head quickly, dabbing her cheeks with the tissue. "I can't, I can't do this to him."

"What? What is it that you can't do?" Her voice maintained the same calm, confident and compassionate tone that she had carried throughout this clandestine meeting, and Joan was grateful for it.

"He has had a very difficult time in the past few years, and was finally getting better. Or as better as he can, at least. Then there was some trouble involving his brother, and a very difficult case we working on, which threw him a bit." She was trying desperately not to go into the details of their case, and prayed that Jane would not ask her to elaborate. "I can't force him into something which could jeopardise his recovery and his well-being. I don't know how he would feel about this, and I am terrified that it will be something too difficult for him to handle, and I can't do that to him. I can't."

Joan was no longer crying, but her voice was tired and emotional, her weary eyes studying the window at the far end of the room, rather than meet Jane's gaze.

"But look at what you are doing, Joan. You are taking all this on yourself. It is frightening and it is difficult, given the clear complexity of your relationship and the issues Sherlock is facing, but do you really think he would be unable to handle it?"

Joan pondered the question for a few moments, before replying with veiled confidence. "He has been through so much, and still has so far to go-" she broke off, remembering the excerpt of the poem she had given him the previous year. The realisation of his need to continue his focus upon himself hit her harder than it had done before, and she fought back the tears. "I can't expect so much of him, I couldn't place him in such a difficult position. It's not his anger that I'm afraid of, but his disappointment, even his resentment. And I can't risk setting him back in his recovery, or destroying the stability that he has finally been able to achieve. I can't do that to him."

She was quiet for a few minutes, and the Professor used this time to consider the information she had just been told, and nodded thoughtfully.

"It is clear that you care deeply about Sherlock and his well-being, and that is wonderful. But don't you think he would want to be included in the raising of his child?"

Joan once more fought back the tears, light from the fireplace dancing in her glassy eyes.

"We can't keep the baby." She stated simply and, without any foresight, burst into tears. Her whole body was shaking and she sobbed, and the Professor felt compelled to comfort her. She moved closer to her, placed one arm around her and drew her head to her shoulder, reassuring her that it was going to be okay, as she gently stroked her hair. Joan stopped crying shortly afterwards, and gently drew herself out of the older woman's arms. She apologised, wiped her eyes, and continued.

"What we do, and what we have done, is dangerous. We accept the dangers, but the baby doesn't, and shouldn't. He or she would be in danger just by being with us. Even if we stopped doing what we did, we would still be targets, and so would our child." Joan spoke solemnly, and in a voice which she did not recognise as being her own. "The only way that the baby will be safe is to be away from us. So I... I think adoption would be... would be the only way to ensure the baby's safety."

The Professor understood Joan's concerns, and admired her strength and her love for both Sherlock and the baby. But her decision still confused her. The logic behind the decision appeared to make sense, and she knew for certain that Joan was acting out of a sense of altruism and duty rather than cruelty or thoughtlessness, but she questioned whether this truly was her only option.

"And is that what you want?" she asked gently, drawing her arms closer to her body, and straightening slightly.

Joan looked up and met the Professor's gaze for the first time that evening, her eyes swimming with emotion. "No." She stated, as confidently as any statement she had ever made. "But it isn't about what I want. Sherlock and the baby need to be protected and loved, and this is the only option I have. It isn't what I want, I have to fight the desire to tell him every time we meet. But what we do has created enemies, countless people who want revenge or the use of Sherlock's mind, and our child would be a target, and Sherlock would blame himself, torture himself with guilt. I can't allow either of those things to happen."

The Professor nodded, and understood that she was not going to be able to change the young woman's mind. She hoped, in time, that Joan would change her mind, and confide in Sherlock. The Professor nodded, and glanced at Joan's stomach. She didn't appear to have gained any weight, so she could not be very far into her pregnancy. She had time to reflect, to consider, and to change her mind.

"I understand." She spoke sincerely, warmly. Joan looked up, and thanked her. "How far along are you?" She asked gently.

After the revelations, Joan found that she was able to compose herself, and seemed calm once more. "Sixteen weeks."

"I would expect to see some sign by now, you appear to be very thin. And this situation is not good for either of you." Concern entered her voice, and Joan nodded understandingly. The Professor looked up and smiled. "I take it that you were hoping to obtain my medical advice as well?" She smiled, grateful that Joan had trusted her enough and felt able to seek her out.

"I was hoping that you could..." She broke off, considering how to phrase her request. "I haven't had any doctors appointments, well, not in the last two months. With everything that has been happening... I was wondering if you would be able to make sure that... that everything is okay?"

The Professor nodded, and smiled kindly at Joan. "Of course I will. I would be honoured." She rose slowly from her seat, and Joan did too. "You remember, I take it, that my late husband had a functional medical facility built at the back of the house. My resources and my knowledge are at your disposal."

The Professor examined Joan, confirmed that everything was progressing well, and reassured her that she was going to be alright. The medical bay even had an ultrasound machine, a slightly older model that the Professor's late husband had bought due to the fact that he specialised in obstetrics. The sight of her baby on the screen was eternally burned into her mind, and for the first time in months she remembered what she was doing all this for. Even at this early stage, she could have sworn that she recognised the child's posture as belonging to Sherlock.

She left shortly after, thanked the Professor sincerely, and apologised for the imposition. The kindly Professor assured her that there was no imposition, and that she was glad to help her. She also suggested that Joan come back every two weeks, or more often if she desired, so that they could talk about what Joan was concerned about, as well as monitoring the progress of her baby. The Professor was also hoping to allay some of Joan's concerns, and to convince her to talk to Sherlock about the baby. She understood the young woman's motivations, and admired her strength, but felt that she was overlooking the potential of Sherlock to help her. Joan assented, and these visits became very routine. She visited Jane every two weeks, with the first two sessions being almost identical to the first. On the third session two weeks after, when Joan was twenty-two weeks pregnant and finding it more difficult to conceal her changing shape, the Professor tentatively enquired whether Joan was certain that Sherlock would be unable to help.

"It's not that he would be unable or even unwilling, I just think that he is dealing with so much right now that I couldn't force something like this upon him." Joan spoke sadly, reflectively. "Besides, we can't keep the baby. It wouldn't be safe, and we can't risk his or her life. The last time Sherlock lost someone he loved, he fell into addiction. He has worked too hard to fall back into that. I can't do that to him."

The Professor nodded slowly, before pressing the issue further. "Are you sure that he wouldn't like to be part of this decision, though? He may agree with you, he may believe that adoption is a good option. Wouldn't you like to ask him?"

"I'd like nothing more than to ask him. But I-" The conversation was stopped by the vibrating of Joan's phone in her bag, which was lying on the floor by her feet. She rushed to pick it up, and as she leant down the loose material of her shirt gathered tightly around her abdomen, revealing a slightly more prominent curve than the Professor had seen just a couple of weeks before. _He will notice soon_, she thought to herself.

Joan answered the phone, and from her tone and her demeanour the Professor realised that it must be funny. It was odd, she thought, that the subject of their conversation had just called Joan. Joan's face betrayed a sense of confusion a bewilderment at what she was being told. She drew her jacket across herself and began to fasten it with her free hand, before staring apologetically over at the Professor. "Yes, no of course. I'll be there right away." She hung up and dropped the phone back into her bag, which she placed over her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, something has come up at the house and I really need to get back."

"That's fine, don't worry." The Professor rose and smiled kindly. "You know you are more than welcome to come back at any time. But please-" Joan swept her hair from the back of her jacket before turning to face the Professor. "Please think about what I said, about talking to Sherlock. I understand your fears and I completely understand the reasons for the decision you have made, but I think that you have been so concerned with protecting everyone that you have not considered other factors. I'm sure Sherlock would listen to your concerns, and would help you. And, from what you've told me, I don't think he would see your child in any way that is different to the way you see it: as beautiful, wonderful, and relying on you both." She stressed the last word gently, placing her hand comfortingly on Joan's arm, before escorting her to the front of the house.

Upon arriving at the brownstone, Joan let herself in and called Sherlock's name. She was surprised, and utterly complexed, to find that it was Mycroft who was walking down the stairs towards her.

"Joan, how wonderful to see you." She smiled, charmingly as he ever did, and moved to embrace her. She moved subtly from his grasp, fearing that he, having not seen her in so long, would instantly notice the change in her body.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here? Where's Sherlock?" She was slightly puzzled, but not overly concerned by the appearance of Mycroft. She was sure it would be a brief, fleeting visit. It usually was.

As she placed her scarf on the coat rack, Sherlock entered the hallway. "Ah, Watson" he chirped, his eyes brightening at her presence. "Thank you for coming so fortuitously. My brother here has an issue which, he assures me, requires the attention of us both. Would you care to join us in the living area?"

Joan nodded and walked briskly past Mycroft into the living area, where she took her seat on the red couch at the end closest to the window. She crossed her legs and drew her jacket around her, confident that it concealed her stomach. Sherlock had, by this time, seated himself in the opposite the fireplace, and was watching Joan perplexedly.

"Are you cold, Watson?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

Joan looked up, and met his confused expression. He had evidently saw her adjust her jacket and assumed it was due to the temperature. She was sure he hadn't noticed. But then her mind flashed back to her conversation with the Professor, the conversation which had been going over and over in her head on the journey from her house to the brownstone. For the first time, as she considered Jane's kind and wise words, whilst staring into Sherlock's eyes, she wondered if there was perhaps some truth in what she had said. Was she making the right decision? Was her choice despite being made with the best and noblest intentions, not quite right? She opened her mouth to speak, but nodded instead, returning her gaze to Sherlock, whose eyes had not left her face. "I'm fine, it's a new jacket, bunches up a lot when I sit down." She tried to use her usual voice and intonation, forcing herself to remain calm. For the first time in the past few months, she was seriously doubting her decision. "Sherlock, when we have listened to Mycroft and discussed whatever it is he needs help with, do you have a minute?" The last part of her request sounded much more sombre than she had intended, and she mentally kicked herself for it, whilst praying that he hadn't noticed.

Sherlock's expression lightened slightly and his body appeared to visible relax as he answered her question. "Of course, Watson. Of course." He was relieved that she had asked, as he was becoming concerned about her. She seemed her normal self to everyone else, even to him, most of the time, But he was certain that there was something she was worried about, something she was concerned with. He thought it was related to her attack, to her worries about her apartment, or even about their previous relationship. But the change was so subtle and so imperceptible, that he had almost doubted it himself.

Mycroft broke the train of both their thoughts as he walked slowly into the living area from the kitchen, one hand in his pocket, the other resting by his side, a brown envelope in his hand. Sherlock turned slightly, tilting his head towards his brother.

"What is it that was so urgent, Mycroft?" he asked, his bright eyes darting across his brother's face.

Mycroft lifted his hand from his pocket and perched on the other end of the red couch, his hands holding the envelope in the same way that a child would hold an unopened present on Christmas morning.

"We are, of course, aware of your investigation into The Couple." Began Mycroft, referring to himself and MI6. "A couple of days ago, I received this, it was delivered to my personal address." He opened the envelope, and inside it were three smaller, slimmer envelopes of the same description. On the front of each was a name, typewritten and on white paper, which had been adhered to the front of the envelope. Sherlock's was one the first, Mycroft's on the second, and Joan's on the last one. All had been opened, Sherlock observed, as Mycroft passed both Joan and his brother their envelopes.

"Mine contains a picture of myself and you, Sherlock, with a note identical to the ones you have both received. We have no doubt of their authenticity, I came here the moment it was confirmed." Mycroft placed his own envelope back inside the larger one, and placed it gently on the couch, before leaning back slightly and surveying the reactions of both Joan and Sherlock.

Both envelopes contained an image printed on glossy and expensive printing paper, as well as a type-written note on some equally expensive white stationary. Sherlock and Joan both read the letters first, each being identical. In terms of threats, they were fairly clear and nondescript. The note simply stated that they had not listened to their previous warnings, and had not stopped their investigation when threatened. It ended with the assurance that further, and 'more permanent' action would be taken if they did not stop immediately. The note also stated that each of the other members of their team, presumably referring to the four individuals who had worked with the DA, had received similar packages.

Sherlock turned over the photograph slowly, his eyes freezing at the image, fear washing over his face. He glances quickly from the image to Mycroft who, he knew, was aware of what the picture depicted. Sherlock turned back to the photo, steeling himself in preparation. It was a picture of Joan, from about a year ago, smiling brightly and posing for the camera. Beneath the image was written 'You have more to lose that you realise.' The thought of Joan being in danger once more both angered and terrified him in equal measure. The note, he assumed, was written by someone who believed that Sherlock was underestimating his feelings for his companion, and who believed that the loss of her would affect him more than he could ever imagine. And they were right. He then turned his attention to Joan, who was also staring at the photograph in her own hand.

Joan's photograph was of her mother, stepfather and brother, and was the replica of one which she displayed in her apartment. At the bottom of the page, in a thick, black marker pen, was written 'Abandon the investigation, or abandon them.' Joan dropped the picture onto her lap, and turned to meet Sherlock's concerned expression, fear dancing in both of their eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

The next couple of weeks were filled with tiresome and often fruitless work in relation to The Couple, whose threatening notes had left a significant impact upon the lives of the recipients. The photographs sent to Sherlock and Watson proved to be more of a catalyst than a stop sign, and led to the partners working harder and more tirelessly than ever before. There were frequent meetings and collaborations with the police, as well as bi-weekly consultations with the four members of the late DA's team.

One of the scheduled meetings for Sherlock, Joan, the police and the DA's team occurred on a cool November morning, the sound of the rain tapping gently against the window as Joan walked slowly into the brightly lit living area, her hands clasped tightly around a cup of hot tea with lemon. She was wearing black leggings with a loose fitting white knitted jumper, which swamped her slightly rounder figure, and was carefully adjusted by Joan as she sat down in an arm chair which Sherlock had placed at the opposite end of the room to his own. When the others came for their meetings, Joan often had to sacrifice her regular seat on the couch to the kindly, young ADA, who appeared to be much more happy and confident than she had been when they first met. Joan was glad.

So far the only people at the brownstone were Joan, Sherlock and Alfredo, who was standing behind Joan and leaning against the window. Joan had noticed how close he had been to her in recent weeks, and had correctly observed that his presence around her had increased markedly since the arrival of the suspicious letters a few weeks ago. This was no coincidence and, as she had just discovered during a conversation with her former client, it was orchestrated by Sherlock. Despite the police presence and protection of Joan, he had been concerned for her welfare due to the fact that The Couple seemed to have a notable fixation upon her. It was not that he did not trust the police protection officers, in fact, he claimed to have "the utmost respect and gratitude for their work". He simply judged that Alfredo's personal knowledge of Joan, wariness of current underground occurrences, and familiarity with New York, meant that he was an invaluable aid to her protection. He apologised to Joan for seeming intrusive, and for not informing her, and assured her that he never once asked Alfredo to breach her privacy. He simply requested that he ensured that she was safe. Whilst she appreciated his concern, she was also consumed with frustration. She had already felt followed for the past six months, and it somehow affected her differently when she learned that someone who she considered to be a friend was now involved in this. It felt as though with each day the case progressed, her independence was slipping further and further from her grasp. Joan pondered these concerns as she slowly sipped her tea, and adjusted herself in her seat.

Joan's frustration was not simply due to this, and to the current case, but also due to her own perceived weakness. After receiving the note and the picture, and seeing Sherlock's reaction to the photograph he received of her, she dismissed her plan to discuss the baby with him. He was now in an even more difficult position, consumed by his drive to solve the case and protect those he cared about, and so she judged that this was, once again, a sign that the best way she could help him was by keeping the news to herself. For the time being, at least. But by this stage, Joan realised that she was running out of time. She had just reached the six month mark of her pregnancy and, despite having a rather modest baby bump, she was finding it more difficult to dress to conceal. Not simply in practical terms, but in emotional ones too. She hated having to hide it, as if it were something she was ashamed of. It wasn't, and nor was she. The fact that the winter promised to be especially cold this year meant that she would be able to wear thick coats, large jackets and baggy jumpers. She considered this information with both fear and gratitude, before placing her tea on a small table to her side and clasping her hands together tightly, as Sherlock entered the room and took up the seat opposite hers.

As usual, the police arrived first, Gregson and Bell strolling in casually, before removing their hats and drawing two chairs from the dining room table into the living area, sitting themselves comfortably in front of the crackling fire. Bell and Joan were deep in conversation when the members of the DA's team began to arrive. Judge Richard Ligardo arrived first, carrying a stack of heavy-looking case files under one arm and holding his briefcase in another. Shortly afterwards the second judge, Adam Robertson arrived, and appeared to be notably weary, possibly declining in health. The pretty young ADA, Miss Van Kamp, arrived a few minutes later, smiled politely at the various individuals already present, and took up Joan's much-loved seat. As usual, PI Justin Reynolds arrived last, flashing Joan the least subtle flirtatious smile humanly possible, before perching himself on the arm of the couch closest to the door, much to the clear annoyance of Judge Robertson, who had to shift forward slightly when speaking to the others.

This meeting, like the four previous ones, was slightly briefer than the one that had preceded it. The activities of The Couple had continued at regular intervals, and was attracting increased media attention. With each crime, slightly more information was being obtained in relation to the identity of the individuals involved, as well as their motivations. By this time, it was clear that the female offender was a classic psychopath, which was further affirmed by the escalation of her crimes, with her displaying additional callousness and cruelty in the most recent attacks. It was agreed upon by all members, including various experts at Quantico, that the female was the dominant member of the team, with her subordinate partner occupying some crucial yet currently unknown role. Due to this level of detachment, there was absolutely no information relating to his physical appearance, but his personality type had been considered by various professionals, including individuals in the room. The suspect's age, personality traits and speciality in technology had been previously discussed, and the fact that The Couple were able to obtain access to documents relating to the whereabouts of several high-ranking individuals demonstrated his technological prowess. The team discussed their own personal and professional views of this individual, but did so with relatively little success.

"One thing is for sure." Began Captain Gregson, one arm resting casually across his lap whilst the other nursed his cup of coffee. "In partnerships like these, the subordinate is the weakness. Not necessarily intellectually or even in terms of confidence. Our guy could be an overly confident, boastful egomaniac, or some snot-nosed kid hiding in his room with his games console. What is clear is that, on many occasions, their actions or failures lead to the downfall of the individuals as a collective group. Either that, or the guy rolls on his boss after some convincing. He is the weakness, and he is our way in. Locating him is essential." All members nodded in agreement, muttering some words of assent.

Judge Robertson very rarely spoke at any length during this meetings, and was notably uncomfortable during the present one. When the team had finished discussing and analysing their most recent findings, Sherlock shifted in his armchair and turned to address the ageing judge.

"Judge Adamson, what are your thoughts?" Asked Sherlock, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes shining brightly.

The judge shifted in his seat before looking up at Sherlock through his thick, black-rimmed glasses. "I believe you're correct, Captain. The location of the male subject is of paramount importance. And I believe that was an opinion shared with the late DA."

The room was silent for a few moments, no one uttering a single sound, processing the Judge's words.

"Jack was a highly skilled, incredibly competent individual with vast experience. His own research, and our personal discussions, revealed much in relation to the female subject. I doubt very much that he did not also consider the importance of the male, especially in terms of destroying The Couple as a threatening organisation." He paused briefly, processing his thoughts, and continuing slowly. "The more we discuss it, the less I believe that the information we gained from Jack's office is everything that he had. He was meticulous, he was thorough. He also had significant leverage in many state departments, domestic and international. I think it time we consider the possibility that he worked on more than he informed us of, more than he discussed with us. I believe we are missing something." 

Sherlock had listened attentively to the words of the judge, nodding at regular intervals as he pursed his lips and entwined his fingers. "Yes, Judge Robertson, I concur. The late DA was a man of immeasurable means and intelligence, and I too find it hard to believe that the information be acquired from his office was the whole package, so to speak." Sherlock stood quickly from his seat and turned towards Gregson, who had turned and was whispering something to Detective Bell, who appeared to be completely immersed in what he was being told.

"Captain Gregson, I wonder, would it be possible to examine the properties of the late DA?"

Gregson turned to Sherlock, a confused look upon his face. "You have, Holmes, on multiple occasions. Fine tooth comb and all that. There was nothing at any of his three properties."

"Yes but, as the esteemed Judge has just established, we are not in possession of all of the facts." He spoke quietly, almost as if to himself, before rising his head slightly and pacing the floor, talking in a much more animated fashion. "The DA was an incredible intelligent man, very capable, as we have already established. If there is some information we are missing, something crucial, something so explosive that he did not even discuss it with his team" Sherlock's tone rose at this last word as he swept his hand in the direction of the red couch, where the judges, ADA and PI were patiently seated. "then we should assume that it was not only the information which remained esoteric, but the location in which it was uncovered and stored. It had not occurred to us before because we had no reason to believe that we were not in possession of the all of the DA's information. But we now have reason to think otherwise."

Gregson had been listening attentively, his eyes on the floor, his right hand pressing his coffee cup to his cheek. "Yeah, right, right. We'll look into it right away, set the wheels in motion. I will call you when we find something, and I'll keep you all updated." Gregson placed his coffee cup gently upon the mantlepiece, before rising and adjusting his suit. Gregson and Bell thanked everyone, wished them the best of luck, and left the brownstone. Sherlock was clearly revitalised by this recent development, and was already considering the factors which would affect the DA's choice of an investigative safe house.

"I think we should be leaving too, Mr Holmes." Stated Judge Ligardo, rising slowly and adjusting his tie. "As always, it has been a pleasure." He turned to his fellow group members and then looked back to Sherlock. "As always, we will investigate what we have discussed, a re-group in a few days time." He reached out his hand and shook Sherlock's hand, rather weakly, the detective mused, before redoing the buttons on his suit jacket and exiting the brownstone. The other members of his team followed shortly afterwards, with just Sherlock, Joan and Alfredo remaining.

The three remaining members discussed the case for the rest of the day, focusing primarily on the personality of the DA, the necessary traits of his secret location, and the relationship between these factors. Sherlock argued that the location itself need not be an isolated mansion or town house with an up-to-date security system. Far from it, it could be anything from an apartment on the Upper-East side to a secret room beneath central park. This filled the team with much less enthusiasm than they had initially enjoyed, but they relished in this new challenge. It was new, fresh, and their most promising lead in recent weeks. Joan considered the information for a moment, going over all the data she had collected in relation to the personality traits, habits and personality of the late DA.

"He was private, but not secretive. The files we found on his computer were not hidden in some impenetrable fortress of a computer programme, but in files within files, like a password-protected russian doll." Joan began, realisation hitting her as she spoke. "It's possible that his safe house would have the same characteristics. The information he had and was seeking was not kept inside a single room which we will unlock with a single key. It will be in a place, within a place, within a place." Sherlock nodded slowly, his thoughts racing.

"An astute observation, Watson. And the correct one, I believe." Alfredo nodded his head slowly, but his face was etched with concern.

"That's great and all, but how will that help us to find the location?"

"It is an important step to revealing not where the location is, but where it is not." Sherlock replied immediately in his usual animated fashion. "Further consideration of the DA's personal files, witness statements relating to his personality, and review of his personal and temporal journals will aid us greatly in the rest."

He moved quickly towards the kitchen, selected some files from the table, and returned to the living room. He handed Alfredo and Joan two files each, holding the remaining three tight to his chest.

"Alfredo, would you look into the DA's schedule and routine for the last, let's say, six months of his life. Find out where he went, who he saw, et cetera." He spun on his heels and turned to face Joan. "Watson, would you be so kind as to peruse our late friend's journals, diaries and letters, both personal and official, and see if anything comes up? Thank you." He bowed his head in mock appreciation, and opened the first page of one of his own files. "I will look into his computer history, and try to find out if there was something our esteemed colleagues at the NYPD have missed."

As he finished his sentence and was about to move towards the kitchen to collect his laptop, his phone began ringing from his pocket, the ringtone identifying the caller as Detective Bell. He pulled the phone deftly from his pocket and answered it on the second ring, his left arm holding the files under his arm. "Have the police found something already, detective? I suppose there's a first time for everyth-" Sherlock was cut off, and his satisfied and mocking smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared on his face. The light left his eyes, which were now downcast, and he cleared his throat before speaking in a cool, hollow tone. "Yes, yes I quite understand, thank you. We'll be there presently." He hung up the phone, and his arm fell slowly to his side, his grip tightening on the phone. He remained still and silence for several moments, before Joan brought him out of his thoughts.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

The sound of her voice seemed to awaken him from his present state, and he turned slowly to face her. "That was Detective Bell." He spoke calmly, but in a very low and subdued tone. Joan could feel her stomach tightening, fear gripping her heart. "Captain Gregson has been shot."


	13. Chapter 13

After the news of Gregson's attack, Sherlock and Alfredo were shocked and deeply concerned. Joan rose from her seat and cross the room to Sherlock, but before she could utter a word Alfredo's calm voice resonated from the back of the room.

"I'll drive you guys to the hospital. My ride's just outside, come on."

Sherlock and Joan were quiet for a few moments, Sherlock's impassive face and emotionless eyes staring towards the fireplace, and Joan watching his face intently. The silence was broken by Sherlock.

"I sincerely hope it is 'your ride', Alfredo." Sherlock quipped, flashing a slight smile at his sponsor, whose mischievous eyes glistened. Sherlock's face immediately returned to its previous impassive state, although this was hidden from Alfredo, as the latter turned slightly to face Joan directly.

"Hilarious Holmes, now let's go." Alfredo, clearly relieved that Sherlock had woken from his daydream-like state, walked across the living area and through the corridor, the sound of him opening the front door breaking the silent yet knowing gaze Sherlock and Joan shared.

"This seems to be rather regular feature of our lives, does it not?" Sherlock muttered in a tone marred with sinisterness and sadness, his large eyes moving from the floor to Joan's face. "Immersing ourselves in emphatically difficult situations and being unable to protect those we-" he cut off, shifted uncomfortably, and walked towards the hallway to join Alfredo.

Joan remained planted on the spot for a few seconds, processing his words. "Not always" she whispered.

The journey to the hospital was brief and filled with silence, with neither Joan nor Alfredo engaging Sherlock in a conversation which they knew would not be beneficial to any of them. Instead,Joan watched her friend concernedly as he stared out of the window on this greying, rainy November day, the sound of the tyres spraying water from puddles everywhere punctuating the silence.

The hospital was the same one in which Joan had previously worked, and before they even made it through the front doors they noticed a small convoy of police cars, which they did not doubt were men from the precinct who had come to the hospital immediately, in a loyal and kindly support of their beloved Captain.

Joan immediately took charge and strolled confidently towards the front desk, disclosing the patient they wished to see and as much of the medical information she was already aware of, before being instructed on which part of the building he was in. She already knew, of course, but this was a polite formality she felt it necessary to perform. She thanked the lady kindly, before turning to Sherlock and Alfredo, who were standing behind her, each with their hands firmly planted in their pockets. "He's in room 453." She met the gaze of both men before leading them to the elevators, where they spent another journey in silence. Upon arriving at the correct floor, Joan turned her head from side to side, reminding herself of the layout of the rooms, and then strolled confidently down the right side of the corridor, before pausing outside the room in which Gregson lay. Asking for the room number was unnecessary, she mused, and she observed the four police officers standing in the hallways by the door, two of whom appeared to be close to tears.

Joan entered the room first, pausing for a moment after taking a few steps inside, and was then followed by Sherlock. Joan moved towards the end of the bed and picked up his medical chart, flicking through the pages, as Sherlock nodded to one of the police officers in the room, who returned the gesture. Even though the police were often sceptical of Holmes, his tactics, and his involvement in their department, their respect for his reputation was matched only by his loyalty to their Captain. They were all on the same side, after all.

Sherlock stood staring at Gregson, who was lying unconscious in the hospital bed, attached to a respirator. There was a small contusion on his head, which had been stitched and covered with a bandage, and the blankets were drawn down to just below his waist, his open chest bandaged about four inches below his neck. Sherlock stared impassively at the broken Captain before being drawn from his thoughts by Joan, when she called his name for the third time.

"Gregson sustained a single gun shot wound to the chest, small calibre weapon. It says here that the bullet was just millimetres from his heart." She paused, her voice low. She swallowed before continuing, and as she did so, Sherlock took a few steps closer towards her, and stood by her side. She recognised it instantly as his attempt to console and comfort her, and was grateful for it. "It appears that he stumbled, hit his head upon the ground, and lost consciousness immediately. He has not woken since, but his vitals all appear to be fine, as are the standard reflex and response tests." She folded the papers back down into their original position, before replacing the chart and moving closer to Gregson. He appeared to be paler than she ever thought it possible for him to be, and the room felt strangely empty without his confident, booming voice. He fact that she had seen his just four hours previously made it even more difficult for her to take in. She rose her right hand and placed it on his own, holding on tightly. Sherlock watched as she did this, before staring at the floor contemplatively, and then staring directly at the young officer who was in the room.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice less friendly than he had intended.

The young officer shifted on the spot, before meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Well, sir, the Captain arrived at the precinct at around three thirty, and ordered a meeting immediately. He told us that we were searching for a property used by the late DA, and that it was of vital importance. He told us that we needed to review everything in order to figure out just what type of property it was, and where it was. He divided us up, assigned us tasks, and then went into his office with Detective Bell." Sherlock nodded at intervals, glad of the officer's detail, yet impatiently awaiting information of the Captain's attack. Sensing his unease, the officer continued, speaking slightly faster than before. "We followed our instructions, some of us remaining at the precinct, others going into the field. The Captain remained in his office for a few hours, Bell left after an hour or so. At around half past six, the Captain came out, announced that he had found something, and told me and Bell to come with him. We were walking out front to the cars when..." The officer paused, exhaled, and looked nervously around the room.

"It's okay," Joan began, comfort and warmth gracing her tone. "Take your time."

"Thank you ma'am." The officer responded immediately, before continuing. "The Captain was striding ahead of us, seemed real confident and excited about something, and then" the officer stared at the floor again, shifted uncomfortably, and then rose his head to meet Sherlock's wide-eyed stare. "There was a gunshot. It came from across the street. The Captain didn't have time to react, and was struck in the chest. I guess he hit his head on the curb has he fell. Bell rushed to the aid of the Captain, whilst I drew my weapon and walked into the road, looking for the shooter. I had no luck, sir." He stated apologetically to Sherlock, his voice lowering. "All I know is that the shot came from the other side of the street, CSIs are working on the trajectory."

Sherlock nodded, thanked the officer, and told him to get himself a cup of tea, assuring him that he and Joan would watch over their fallen friend until he returned. The officer seemed conflicted about leaving, but after a few second he removed his hat, nodded to Joan, and left the room.

"So Gregson found something." She stated, her eyes not leaving his body. She wrapped her fingers tightly around his hand, and squeezed gently. "We'll find it, Captain. I promise." 

Sherlock's stare had not left Joan, and her kind, reassuring tones affected him deeper than he could express. "We need to get back to the precinct and search his office, find out exactly what it was that he found. Whatever it was almost cost him his life." Sherlock inhaled sharply, removing his stare from Watson.

"From what the officer said" she began, removing her hand from Gregson's and walking over to Sherlock. "the Captain announced that he had found something less than a minute before leaving the precinct and stepping out into the street. How could someone have possibly acted so quickly?"

"Because, my Dear Watson, the moles have burrowed much deeper than we had imagined." He spoke in a dangerously quiet tone, before turning on his heels and leaving the room, Joan walking quickly to keep up. Alfredo joined them as Sherlock walked briskly down the corridor and pressed the button to the elevator with a force which reflected his subdued frustration. Joan watched him carefully, concerned more about his well-being now than ever before.

For the next two weeks Sherlock and Joan worked with the police and DA's team as they investigated the attack on the Captain, who was yet to regain consciousness. The shooter had not yet been located, but it was established by the ballistics team that the shot was fired from a third or fourth storey window of the apartment complex opposite the precinct, and that the weapon used was consistent with the gun used to murder the DA. No one had thought that the explanation would be otherwise, but the official revelation of these facts remained to have a deep-seated and unsettling effect upon the police.

Joan had been watching over Sherlock recently, and her concerns about his frustration and increasingly erratic behaviour were almost completely alleviated by the end of the first week of the investigation. He seemed much calmer, much more clear-headed and less prone to breaking various ornaments. She was currently twenty-six weeks pregnant, and finding it less difficult to conceal her condition than she had anticipated. Still, she relied upon thick, woollen scarves which hung loosely across her neck and floated over her abdomen. She was grateful for this for a number of reasons, not least the chilly late November weather which had embraced the city.

The last two weeks had been spent reviewing everything from Gregson's office, including his conversation with Detective Bell. It appears that, shortly before he was shot, the Captain instructed Bell to pull the financial records of the late DA, and to bring him his personal possessions from evidence. Bell left the office for this purpose, and sent the evidence over by courier, as he had been sent to re-interview the late DA's work colleagues. The Captain's usually pristine office was littered with brown paper evidence bags, transparent ones too, and his laptop had been bleeping furiously. When Sherlock had entered the office two weeks ago, he took a copy of the hard-drive, as well as an inventory of the physical evidence (and one or two pieces of it which he managed to conceal in his pockets), which he took back to the brownstone and had been working on for the past two weeks. And, finally, Sherlock and Joan had a break through.

Sherlock found a small slip of paper, hidden at the bottom of one of the evidence boxes, which had evidently been penned by Gregson just before he left the office. The evidence box contained a small evidence bag with a chain of keys, one of which was small and silver, and had yet to be identified. It was not surprising that Gregson had focused on this first. On the piece of paper next to this bag was a three-digit number and the letters 'QNS'. After reviewing the evidence that Gregson had been looking at it, as well as uncovering the fact that the beeping of the laptop was signalling a former case, Sherlock was able to interview a former convicted criminal who Gregson had put away. It became apparent that this criminal was running a smuggling operation, and had been storing his proceeds in a garage in a run-down area of Queens. Suddenly, the letters made sense. Gregson had made a link between the DA's key and the garage facility. The number on the paper, then, must have been the number of the garage which the DA had rented, for a reason unknown to anyone. Sherlock deduced that it was this location that the Captain had been about to lead Bell and the young officer to before he was shot.

Sherlock was currently standing in front of the fireplace, staring up at a large map of the city which he had tacked to the wall. HE moved forward to press a small red sticker upon the location of the garages, before stepping forwards, his eyes darting across the map. "It is unclear yet, Watson, if the garage is located near the property, or if the garage _is_ the property." He punctuated this sentence by staring once more at the dozens of potential buildings near the garage, before turning around and grabbing his jacket from the couch, removing his phone from the pocket, and called Bell to inform them of the most recent (and most promising) development.

Joan nodded whilst securing her own coat, and followed Sherlock out into the hallway, as they were driven to the location by Alfredo. Despite the latter's impressive driving skills and enviable knowledge of all the short cuts imaginable within the city, the trio still arrived a few minutes after Bell and the police. Although Sherlock would never admit it, this had irked him slightly. The team collaborated, agreeing that Sherlock, Joan and Bell would look over the garage whilst the dozen or so officers present would split up and review all building within a one mile radius.

Sherlock and Joan entered the garage with mixed feelings of concern and apprehension. It seemed so out of place, so unlikely a safe house for the DA. Although, they mused, that was probably the point. Several stubs of paper at the back of the DA's wallet revealed that he made three monthly payments to an unknown source for two hundred dollars which, the police correctly deduced, was to pay for the garage space. As the dark green door rose with a formidable screeching sound, Sherlock and Joan gazed ahead into the darkened, empty space. The garage appeared to be almost completely empty, with the cold, grey concrete walls decorated with two torn posters, and several paint tins scattered across the floor. The ground itself was cracked and damp, with several pieces of broken concrete jutting out from the ground. The more they viewed it, the more Joan and Sherlock questioned the place. Perhaps it was a cover? Maybe it was supposed to confuse anyone who investigated the DA? Unlikely, surmised Sherlock. It was too obscure, too seemingly irrelevant. He walked slowly into the room, the damp smell hitting him as soon as he passed the threshold. Joan followed him in cautiously, her gloved hands rose to cover her nose from the unpleasant smells. Her thick, black coat brushed against the side of the wall as she stepped out of the way of a suspiciously deep pool of liquid on the floor. She pressed her heel into it, established that it was only three or four inches deep, and then retracted her foot. However, as she did so, she felt a tall, jutting piece of concrete beneath her foot. She found it curious that the water had pooled here to such a degree that it created a fairly deep puddle, when the dripping was actually coming from the opposite wall, with only one drop every minute or so being heard. She bent down, un-gloved her right hand, and reached into the puddle, pulling out the triangular piece of concrete. She rose slowly, removing her other glove by biting the tip of one of the fingers and drawing her head back, folding the gloves together in her left hand, and placing the concrete on top. She ran her fingers over the surface of the material, and was surprised to find the traces of the shape of a square at the base of the triangle. Sherlock walked over to her slowly as she pushed gently at the centre of the square, causing the material to fall into her hand, and revealing the concrete triangle to be hollow. She examined the concrete square for a moment, before placing her finger inside the gap in the triangle, and feeling a raised shape, which she traced with her finger and identified as being a rectangle. She nudged it gently, tilted the concrete, and it fell effortlessly into the palm of her right hand. It was a memory stick. Sherlock smiled as he slowly extracted it from her outstretched palm, and held it up in the air, admiring it. "Well done, Watson. A remarkable find."

The next two weeks were spent trying to solve the mysteries of the memory stick. It was partially damaged, which Sherlock deftly and painstakingly repaired, and that material on the memory stick itself was borderline impenetrable. Sherlock had been running all the software he had available to him upon it, with mixed success. Although he had broken down two of the three security barriers which protected the information, the third was still puzzling him, keeping him for nights on end. Joan had been spending less time at the brownstone than usual, and was working on other related leads at her own home for a large part of the days. However, on this particular day, she was at Sherlock's home, and they were sat together in the living area, him sat on the floor bent over the glaring screen of the laptop, and she sat on the sofa, beneath a blanket, making notes on witness statements. She looked up slowly from her files to a clock on the mantelpiece, and acknowledged the time as being shortly before six. Knowing that her appointment with Jane was it just over an hour, she informed Sherlock that she had to leave soon.

"Of course, Watson." He chirped after a few moments, finally drawing his face away from the screen, his furious tapping ceasing finally. "Please send my warmest regards to your friend." Sherlock's tone was seemingly sincere. And Joan was sure that, to an extent, it was. Although she was equally aware that her frequent meetings with Jane would require further explanation than she was giving him. She did not believe that he was suspicious or distrustful, as the meetings were bi-monthly and not always mentioned, but she was aware of his growing curiosity into her whereabouts, which had increased markedly since Gregson's attack.

The meeting with Jane followed the same format as it had done for the last few months. Hey discussed how Joan was feeling, physically and emotionally, before the Professor examined her and her baby's progress.

"For twenty-eight weeks, you have not gained as much weight as I would have liked. However, the baby, while on the smaller side of average, is absolutely fine." Joan nodded, sitting up and lowering her shirt. "Have you been eating the types of foods we discussed last time?" 

Joan looked towards the Professor whilst she buttoned her jacket. "Yes, I've made the changes. I certainly feel slightly bigger, but I understand your concerns. I am slightly smaller than I should be." She rested her hand on her swollen abdomen, before putting on her coat.

"And you still haven't told him?" The Professor's tone was kind, not reprimanding in tone, she simply sounded concerned.

"No" Joan mumbled, shifting slightly and stepping down from the bed. "No, I haven't. It just hasn't been the right time."

"Time, Joan, is something that you have precious little of." The Professor's tone was as kind and gentle as it had been before, and she crossed her arms slowly across her chest. "If you still feel unable to tell him, I think that you should consider removing yourself from all current investigations for the duration of your pregnancy. You could certainly do with the rest and a reduction in stress, which he will not understand you require if he is unaware of the baby." Joan's eyes did not leave the Professor's face as she spoke, and she nodded sadly.

"You're right. Of course you're right." She acquiesced, her voice betraying her uncertainty. "It's just... He needs me now, and the faster we can solve this, the aster we can discuss... that we can talk about-"

The Professor interjected gently, her tone unchanging. "about the baby?" Joan nodded, her confidence seeming to restore itself. "So you are reconsidering adoption?" 

Joan's expression changed slightly. That was not what she had meant. She wished she had, she wished it more than anything, but recent events had made her even more certain about the need to protect both Sherlock and the baby, and had restored her faith in the belief that adoption was the only way to do that. Despite the fact that it was the last thing she wanted.

"I have an appointment with a social worker next Friday at three. I'm going to discuss my options with her." Joan spoke in a cool, detached manner as she turned to pick up her bag. It had taken her three attempts to call the social worker, and she had cried solidly for an hour after the conversation had ended. Every time she thought about the impending meeting she was flooded with sadness and pain. Jane nodded, placed her hand comfortingly upon Joan's shoulder, and led her towards the front of the house. Joan thanked her for her kindness, hospitality and understanding. She also stated that she was grateful that she was not being judged.

"Judgement is one of the least human traits, I find. Besides" She spoke warmly as she leaned upon the door frame, as Joan was descending the steps towards her car. "I think what you are doing is brave, and I understand how much pain it is causing you." Joan nodded appreciatively, gave her the sweetest smile she could manage, and walked over to her car as Jane waved to her kindly, before slowly closing the door.

Joan had barely driven out of the driveway when there was a loud explosion, a burst of flames and light, and the house behind her burst into flames.


	14. Chapter 14

*** Thank you to everyone who has been reading this fanfic, I greatly appreciate your input and support :) I'm sorry for it taking so long for Joan's secret to be revealed, but it will be discussed with one of the main characters (thanks to the advice of ElementaryFan) in the next chapter (15), and Sherlock will find in the same chapter. Thank you so much for your patience, and sorry for the length of the story and dragging out of the story line, I was just trying to ensure that all bases were covered, as I did not want other elements of the plot to be neglected. If there are any problems or concerns please let me know :) Thank you again, HQ21.

Within twenty minutes, the secluded farm house and surrounding area was swarming with police officers, following an urgent phone call made by Joan to Detective Bell. After hanging up the phone, Bell dispatched a dozen officers, called the fire department and the bomb squad. He then personally drove to Sherlock's brownstone, wanting to be able to tell him what had happened in person, and take him directly to the scene. He knew that Sherlock would be extremely agitated and upset by the news, and hoped that talking to him personally, and escorting him to Joan, would make things simpler, and would ensure that Joan was well looked after. After everything she had been through in the past year or so, she would be in desperate need of comfort, and he knew that she would seek solace in Sherlock.

Detective Bell was correct. Sherlock had been surprised to see the detective on his doorstep, as he usually called ahead, and arranged their meetings to be held at the precinct. At first he suspected that Captain Gregson had taken a turn for the worst. Upon allowing Bell inside, the detective's nervous demeanour did nothing to allay his fears, and Sherlock asked him directly what had happened. When Bell explained the incident, that Joan had called in an explosion at the house of a long-standing friend, someone who she had been with just minutes before, Sherlock felt his stomach tighten. He had been trying desperately to protect Joan, doing everything he could to spare her further distress. And, once again, he felt as though he had failed her. Sherlock asked Bell if Joan was hurt, to which the detective replied that she was not, that she was far enough out of the vicinity of the blast to be physically unaffected, although she had sounded shaken on the phone. Sherlock grabbed his jacket and asked (commanded, really) to be taken to Joan. The detective nodded, and turned towards the door, rushing down the steps and unlocking his car.

When they arrived at the scene fifteen minutes later, a few of the police cars which Bell had dispatched had already arrived, as had two fire engines and an ambulance. Sherlock and Bell immediately looked around the area for Joan. Sherlock could see her car parked a few yards outside the large, ornate gateway of the property, and saw some fine, white material floating into the air, hovering above a small, stone wall which bordered the property. Without a word, he jogged over to the material, which he recognised to be one of Joan's most treasured silk scarves, and looked down. Joan was sat on the edge of the pavement, her knees drawn to her chest, the scarf billowing above her head. Slowly, Sherlock took a seat next to her, and waited for a few moments before speaking. Despite the fact that she was wearing a thick, dark coat which almost concealed her entirely in the darkness, Sherlock took off his own coat mechanically, and wrapped it around her shoulders, before running his hand comfortingly down her back. She shifted slightly where she was sitting, and leaned towards him. She rose her head slowly, and found herself looking directly into his eyes. They expressed fear, anxiety, and regret. She opened her mouth to speak but, finding no words available, simply turned her head back, until she was once more facing the road, listening to the sounds of the distant traffic. Anything but the banging, the licking of the flames, and the scent of burning wood.

"Watson, I am so sorry." Sherlock began, sounding much more confident than he felt. "I know how much she meant to you".

Joan pursed her lips, stifled a sob, and thanked him. He sounded sincere, and she was certain that he was. But she was exhausted, emotionally and physically. She could not accept what had just happened, it didn't seem real. When she heard the explosion she froze, before driving back towards the house and getting out of the car. She had called out to Jane, but received no reply. The house caught fire so quickly, flames consuming it completely. She ran to it, hoping to find some way in, some way to Jane. She couldn't find one. By the time she was within six feet of the house the heat was unbearable, and the flames rose higher and higher. She had called Detective Bell and then retreated to the road, where she had remained for the past half an hour or so. The realisation that Jane was dead had not fully entered her mind until Sherlock expressed his condolences. She still fought it, though, this unbearable knowledge. Jane was one of the kindest and most inspirational people she had ever had the pleasure to meet and to work with, and they had remained friends for over a decade. Jane was her confidante, and had gone out of her way to help Joan and her baby. And now she was gone. And, in Joan's own confused and dazed state, she blamed herself entirely. There was no way this was an accident, or some kind of gas leak. This was another attack, aimed at Joan and Sherlock. It was her punishment for remaining on the case, for attempting to bring The Couple to justice, and to protect their future victims. And Jane had paid the price.

These thoughts ran through Joan's head as soon as she heard Sherlock's voice, and she had been sat in a stupefied silence for about three minutes since she replied. He sat patiently beside her, not moving or speaking, waiting for her to start a conversation, to move, to act. To cry, even. She didn't cry, she refused. She was to exhausted and too frightened to allow herself to cry. She also knew that, if she began, she would not be able to stop. She needed to act, they both did.

"Have the police found out what happened?" she asked, her voice sounding tired and hoarse.

Sherlock turned slowly towards her, and shifted his body slightly so that they were facing each other. "Not much as yet." He began, trying to select his words carefully, and cause Joan the least pain. "They believe that it was no accident, and have found traced of explosives all around the property. They believed the device was activated remotely by someone who was watching the house." Joan nodded, not raising her eyes from the ground. If that were true, she thought, then why would they wait until she left? Why would they spare her?

"Have they found-" Joan began to speak, before her voice caught sharply in her throat, and she exhaled quickly. "Did they find Jane?"

Sherlock met her gaze, and looked at her with kindness and compassion. "Not yet, Watson, not yet." Joan nodded again, once more fighting back the tears. She was imagining the last look she saw on Jane's face, her last expression, her final wave. She could not bare to imagine what happened next. "Watson, will you allow me to take you to the brownstone? The police would like to speak with you, but I have instructed Bell to wait until the morning." She continued to look at him for a moment, before turning and looking towards the long, empty road, and then again meeting his gaze. "I would very much like for you to stay with me tonight, should you wish it. I do not think it would be good if you were to be alone." He was trying to sound kind and considerate without being authoritative, and he succeeded. She nodded gratefully at him, certainly not wishing to be alone that evening, and thanked him. She placed her hands on the edge of the pavement and began to push herself up which, recently, had not been an easy task. Sherlock moved to help her, and as she saw his hand reach towards her waist, she panicked, and moved a few inches away, finding herself once again on the pavement.

"I'm sorry, I-" she faltered, trying to explain the reason behind her actions. "I guess I'm still a bit jumpy. I'll be fine though, really." Her voice was recovering some of its previous confidence, and she rose slowly to a stand. Sherlock followed her actions, nodded at her, and then led her back towards Bell's car. Bell was standing by the driver's seat door, and was talking to two uniformed officers. Upon seeing Joan, he dispatched the officers and moved slowly towards her. She was dreading being asked if she was 'okay', she could not bear to lie any more. Somehow sensing his discomfort, the detective simply spoke her name gently, and held open a door for her. She slowly made her way into the back seat of the car, where she was joined by Sherlock. As she put on her seatbelt, she looked forward, at the windscreen, and was taken aback by what she saw. The rustic old farmhouse, which had been standing proud, and bathed in pink flowers and bright green ivy just hours before, was now reduced to burned wood and rubble, and a few standing stone pillars, with grey smoke still emanating from the late domain. For a moment it felt as though she could not breath, and her breath staggered in her throat. Sherlock turned immediately, and placed his hand on her shoulder, drawing her out from her fear. Her eyes were wild and desperate, panicked almost, and he had never seen her look so vulnerable. He shifted slightly in his seat and placed his arm across the back of her neck, drawing her slowly towards his shoulder. She casually adjusted his coat, drawing it closer around herself, and then rested her head upon his shoulder, and slowly closed her eyes. By the time she awoke, she found herself still leaning on his shoulder, but staring at the bright, artificial lights of the lamp posts which stood outside the brownstone. She stayed there for the night, creeping silently up to her bedroom, and leaving early the next day.

Joan remained in her apartment for two weeks, where Sherlock visited her daily, and slowly came to terms with recent events. After this period, which Sherlock wholeheartedly endorsed, she returned to the brownstone during the days, and continued to work on the case involving The Couple. Over the two weeks that followed, the meetings with the police and the DA's team became more frequent and much more prolonged, with the individuals at the brownstone sometimes not leaving until the late evening. The main issues discussed at these meetings were the current cases, which were plentiful, as The Couple had been keeping very busy, and the memory stick which Joan had found. Sherlock had not yet broken the code which would unlock the secret files, but he was awaiting a call from a contact in Vancouver, and believed that he was getting very close. Initially, relatively little had been uncovered in relation to the explosion, a subject which Joan avoided as best as she could. In the last meeting just four days before, a link had been found between the type of device used and a previous case. The case in question was one of the cases which had been found in the office of the late DA on the evening that he died, linking the explosion directly to The Couple. However, the incident became the focal point of one of the meetings a month after the explosion, in which Judge Ligardo began to ask questions about Professor Jane Holloway. Watson's attention was instantly drawn to this subject, and she answered his general questions as candidly and succinctly as she was able. She was finally finding it easier to talk about Jane, and the kindness and generosity of the late Professor warmed her heard.

"And what exactly was the nature of your relationship with her?" Asked Ligardo, in a very direct, tactless manner. Sherlock shifted his gaze to the Judge, an air of disapproval visible in his body language, and then diverted his attention to Joan, who appeared to be completely composed.

"We were old friends, she was my Professor at med school. We met frequently, just to talk, catch up. She was eminently respected and highly esteemed within the medical world, and so I sought her advice on various aspects of our most recent cases, without giving her too many details."

The group seemed to accept this explanation without question, but before they could move on, the brusque Judge continued to ask questions.

"And you trusted her? Completely?" She asked, an air of confusion infecting his tone.

Joan responded almost immediately. "Professor Holloway had my complete and unreserved confidence. She was a wonderful woman and a highly skilled medic. As far as the cases go, I gave her absolutely no details that could lead her to-" 

"No, no, that is not what I am referring to." Interrupted the Judge, using a tone and line of questioning which was so direct as to make Joan feel as though she were being cross examined in court. "I was actually wondering whether we should investigate the possibility that, as no body was recovered, Holloway faked her death."

Joan stared at the Judge for a solid minute, her steely gaze penetrating his confusion. His logic was lost on her, and she could not fathom why he would even consider something so ridiculous. "no, of course she didn't. Why would she?"

"Perhaps" he asked gently, his tone adopting its usual kindness and detachment, "perhaps she was the woman we are looking for. The leader of The Couple." 

Joan had been trying to control herself, trying to prevent herself from reacting harshly to this slur. Clearly, the Judge was becoming increasingly concerned by the lack of fresh information on the case, and was attempting to force mismatched puzzle pieces into a single design, and kidding himself that the result was a beautiful image that was flawless and complete. "There is absolutely no chance that that was the case. And there is no evidence to uphold your theory." Joan was surprised at how calm and restrained her voice sounded, and it did not betray any of the iciness she could feel seeping into her veins.

"I'm sorry, Miss Watson," the Judge began, shifting once more, and appearing visibly uncomfortable. She was beginning to realise that he probably meant absolutely nothing by his comment, which was solely an act of pure desperation due to his own frustration. He leaned back in his seat of the couch, before leaning forwards and meeting her gaze. "You're right, I'm sure you are. It just seems odd, you understand? She fits many of the physical elements of the profile, and her extreme intelligence and association with high-ranking members of society is also consistent with the profile." He appeared sheepish, apologetic, almost as if he were regretting the words as he spoke them. It was less an accusation, Joan mused, and more of an attempt to explain his own logic. She nodded slowly, before confidently meeting his stare once more.

"I understand your concerns, Judge Ligardo, but please let me assure you that you are wrong." He nodded slowly, pursing his lips together, and seeking back into his seat on the couch. Although the room had been filled with individuals who had previously accepted Watson's explanations, there was now a clear air of uncertainty which was hanging in the room. Before Joan could address this, the direction of the meeting was shifted by Sherlock, who guided the conversation for another hour and a half, before all members of the group finally departed. As they moved to leave, Joan left the living area and walked slowly into the kitchen, and began washing up the cups and plates which had accumulated throughout the day.

When everyone had left, and the brownstone was quiet once more, Joan and Sherlock were left completely alone. Despite being thirty two weeks pregnant, Joan did not find her increased size to be an issue when cleaning or leaning over into the sink. In fact, as of quite recently, she felt more alert, more awake, and more energetic than she had in the past few months. This was reflected in the fact that, every evening before she left Sherlock's home, she would embark on a large cleaning spree, beginning downstairs and slowly leading upwards. Sherlock put this down to a diversion tactic, a way of her focusing her energy on something which did not include the recent tragedies in her life. As this was the case, he did not prevent her from doing so, although he did follow her from room to room, where they held conversations on various subjects. The topic of tonight's conversation, Joan correctly anticipated, would be the questions posed by Judge Ligardo.

As she stood over the sink, the warm water splashing against the marble, Joan became aware of his presence. She turned slightly, and saw him leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his attention directed at her. "I must say, Watson, I fear for the enamel on my mugs. I do not believe they will survive much more of your vigorous washing." She smiled, picking up a cup from the table and placing it next to her, near a small collection of others. He leaned back against the work surface, mere inches from where she stood, and watched her as she turned of the tap and began to wash the cups. "A particularly difficult evening, I think." He spoke solemnly, and calmly awaited a reply.

"Ligardo was out of line." She mumbled, placing one cup on the draining board and reaching for another. "She does not fit the profile at all. Her age was off by about a decade, and she did not have access to high ranking policemen or politicians."

"No, I quite agree, Watson." He replied sincerely, turning to face her. "Still, you seemed uncomfortable when she was introduced into the conversation, and not, I believe, due to her recent passing." She was slightly puzzled by this question, but continued her cleaning routine none the less. Before he could continue, she spoke.

"I was thrown. He was accusing a close friend of mine of-"

"That is not what I meant, my dear Watson." Sherlock spoke in a low, yet gentle voice, which drew her away from her work. She turned to him, tilted her head slightly, and waited for him to continue. "Your body language changed markedly not when he asked about the possibility that she was the woman we are looking for, not even when her name was first mentioned. No, your body language changed, quite markedly, I might add, when you responded to his first question. The one regarding the nature of your relationship." 

Joan appeared calm, but inside she was panicking. She did not believe she had given anything away, and was determined to maintain her composure now, at this very moment. She looked at him perplexedly, and asked what he meant. "I do not wish to pry, Watson, truly I do not. But is there something that you wish to discuss?" 

Again, Joan tried to maintain his stare, and keep herself calm and composed. She placed the dripping sponge she was holding on the draining board, pulled her jacket closer to herself, and folded her arms casually. "What do you mean?" She asked, confusion evident in her voice.

"Again, I have no wish to pry, and take no pleasure in invading your privacy. But if there is something that you have not felt able to discuss, something which could, without your knowledge, pertain to this case, then please know that I am here, willing, to listen."

Joan felt as though her heart had just stopped beating. She felt suddenly flushed, and then cold. She felt as though she was unable to catch her breath for a moment, before she was able to calm herself, and continue appearing calm and collected. She was sure he had noticed the change in her appearance, there was no way he would miss something to clear, so pronounced. And this thought terrified her.

"There was something I didn't tell you, Sherlock, relating to my meetings with Jane." She felt confident talking to Sherlock, and remarkably calm, as though she were divorcing herself from the reality of the events which she was about to share. After everything that had happened recently, and due to the fact that she did not believe that she would be able to conceal her pregnancy for much longer, she decided that telling Sherlock about the baby was the right thing to do, and that, as Jane said, they would work it out together. She had been doubting herself recently, going over her motivations for not telling him. Whilst in her flat for two weeks after Jane's death, she had used the time to fully consider Jane's perspective and reconsider her own options. The day after the explosion, Joan had called the social worked back and cancelled their appointment, which did not lessen her sadness or confusion at all. She had been searching of a way to tell him, but being too afraid too, telling herself that it was not the right time, and finding reasons to consider concealing the truth from him. The guilt she felt from this, and the fear in the knowledge that he would soon know the truth, and be aware of her deception, absolutely terrified her. But after his prompting, his clear concern, and the compassion and care that was dancing in his eyes, she felt that she needed to tell him the truth immediately. They had two months to discuss their options and figure out the best way to protect the baby, and to keep their child safe. The thought of being able to finally share this with him gave her a small degree of hope that, perhaps, there was a solution which she had not considered. She entwined her fingers and looked towards Sherlock, who had shifted slightly and was leaning against the work surface, concern and apprehension present in his eyes. His expression changed when he caught her state, to one of empathy and compassion, and the kindness in his eyes willed her to continue.

"Sherlock, I-" before she could finish talking, a loud buzzing sound emanated from Sherlock's pocket. His attention shifted downwards quickly, before he stared back up at her, his apologetic eyes relaying his regret more than his words ever could.

"I'm sorry Watson, I-"

"No, no it's fine." Joan sighed, grateful for her temporary reprieve. "Answer it, really, it could be important." Sherlock stared at her for a few seconds, before apologising once more, and answering the phone. As he spoke to the person on the other end, Joan went over her words carefully, considering how best to begin the discussion which would change their lives. She was brought from her thoughts by Sherlock's voice, as he was gently calling her name.

"It was Bell, he's at the hospital. Captain Gregson is awake."


	15. Chapter 15

*** The conversation Joan has with one of the characters regarding his pregnancy is based on the wonderful input of ElementaryFan, thank you for your kind advice, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)

Following the news that Gregson had regained consciousness, Sherlock and Joan left immediately for the hospital, their previous conversation remaining unfinished. By the time they arrived at the room, the scene was not one that they would have expected. Sherlock knew something was wrong the moment he entered the corridor, as a small group of police officers were stood directly outside the room, pacing nervously. As they slowly approached the room, a doctor in a long white coat ran past them, dividing the congregated officers, and rushed into the room. Sherlock paused for a moment outside the room, by Joan did not. She walked straight in, and was struck by the sight of the medical team trying to resuscitate the Captain. She inhaled sharply and rose a hand to her mouth, which immediately drew Sherlock into the room. He assessed the situation quickly, and placed his hand on Joan's lower back, before gently guiding her to a seat in the corner of the room.

"He's back!" Yelled one of the nurses, looking towards the doctor holding the paddles. "His vitals are good too, he is stable." Joan sighed a sigh of relief, bowing her head slightly, and Sherlock sighed too, releasing his grip from the back of Joan's chair.

The next two weeks were faced with similar incidences, with the Captain briefly regaining consciousness, muttering a few words, and then falling unconscious once more. His heart stopped beating on one other occasion, but he was saved once more. After this incident, he grew stronger by the day, his sallow complexion improving slowly, the pinkness returning to his lips. Joan visited him every day and spent hours by his side, talking to him whilst he was unconscious, aware that it was possible that he could hear her, and perhaps even felt comfort in her words and her presence. Sherlock came by daily too, to check on both Gregson and Joan, who was splitting her time between the brownstone and the hospital, retreating to her apartment each day to sleep, which lasted no more than six hours. She felt exhausted, but was hiding it well. At least, she believed that she was.

The two weeks that followed this required her attention to be diverted from Gregson's bedside, and dedicated solely to the case at hand. Sherlock, with the help of his contact in Vancouver, had finally managed to break the code. The memory stick contained information relating to dozens of case files, some of which the team had in hard copies, and some of which they did not. Some of the cases seemed familiar to Sherlock, and a small amount of them were some which he himself had dismissed from the investigation. It seemed that the DA had been following a similar line of inquiry. As well as the cases, the memory stick also contained the confidential files of various individuals, including high ranking legal and political personnel. There were even files on Sherlock, Joan, the DA's team and several high-ranking police officials. Sherlock and Joan divided the work between them, with Joan looking into the personnel files, and Sherlock studying the case files, where he went through the painstaking task of dismissing those which were not related, and drawing relevant information from those which were.

It was in the fourth week following the Captain's first regaining of consciousness that Sherlock made the most critical breakthrough of the case so far, which led him to the identity of one of the members of The Couple.

"Watson, Watson" he called to her, as she was preparing some tea in the kitchen. It was three in the morning and they were both exhausted, and she had decided that a fresh and revitalising cup of tea may restore them temporarily, and allow them to sift through the final cases. She came out of the kitchen at that moment, placed the tea on the small table near Sherlock's armchair, and turned her attention towards him. "Would you be so kind as to pass me the third case file from the top, on the second pile from the left?" Without even looking up from the case file he was currently looking over, Sherlock pointed to a trio of stacks of case files at the opposite end of the room. Joan replied in the affirmative, before making her way across the room, selecting the file, and depositing it next to him. He thanked her, before dropping the open case file he currently held and flipping furiously through the one he had just received from Joan. His eyes lit up, and he leapt excitedly from the ground. A mischievous smile danced upon his face, and he turned to her excitedly. However, something seemed to dawn on him suddenly, and his expression fell, although excitement still animated his features.

"Watson, this is not something I had foreseen. It is by an incredible coincidence that I was able to uncover this, the clues appearing to be merely incidental to the larger picture, but from my own private research and from an understanding of the character of the person involved, I believe this to be absolutely accurate."

Joan froze. He seemed to be battling between conflicting feelings of ecstasy and concern, the latter of which rarely entered his emotions when identifying the guilty party. "Sherlock, what is it?"

He bent down to pick up the second case file, opened it to the relevant page, and placed it on the red couch. He then lay the new one beside it. "The first case, Watson, the one you just passed to me, is the case of one Jonathan Gilleroy, who was convicted due to his participation in the creation and detonation in an explosive device in 2006. He is also of particular significance to this investigation due to the matching of the type of device used in this case, and the one used by the individual or individuals who planted the device at Professor Holloway's home." He paused for a moment, allowing Joan to reflect upon the information, before continuing. "This individual is also mentioned in another case which the DA had stored on his computer, and which he had a hard copy of on the desk the day he died. The same individual, but accused and convicted of a different crime. This time, the crime was one committed the year previously, and involved the much less grand crime of vandalism and theft." Watson nodded, waiting for Sherlock to deliver the verdict.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," she began after he did not speak for several moments. "Are you saying that this man is the man we are looking for?"

Sherlock turned to face her, dropping the file on the sofa, and leaning against the arm of the couch. "No, my dear Watson, this man most certainly is not a member of the guilty party. The fact that he is coming up in our investigation repeatedly is something which warrants further attention. So I researched him further, not just his life, by his court cases themselves, and the individuals involved. You can imagine my surprise, Watson, when I found that the same Human Rights ADA had represented him at each of his hearings." 

Joan stared at him, bewildered, before shaking her head. "No, no that's not possible. Amelia doesn't fit the profile, she-"

"Miss Van Kamp is a much better actress than you give her credit, Watson. I saw through her sob story about her ill-fated relationship with the ADA immediately. I had the good pleasure of meeting Jack on several occasions, and she was certainly not the type of lady he would consider being involved with romantically. Also, while she was telling you of their relationship, she kept catching sight of herself in the glass of the window behind me, as if making sure that she appeared sufficiently emotional. Interestingly, the moment she left the brownstone, I observed that she appeared quite chipper as she answered a call on her cell phone, and strolled merrily to her car."

"This doesn't make sense. In terms of age, height and appearance she is not dissimilar to the person we are looking for, but this woman is not a psychopath." Joan sounded completely astounded, and was, for the first time she could recall, questioning whether Sherlock could have made a mistake.

"I'm afraid she is, Watson, as is clear from her manipulation of your kindness, and of other situations within our meetings. The classified psychological reports in her classified personnel file also seem to suggest that the lady is a master manipulator. The DA was beginning to think so. He was beginning to question the loyalty of his team, which is clear from the notes he made and stored on this memory stick. It also explains why none of his team knew of the existence of this material. Why would a man who shared everything with a select group of trusted individuals, who relied so much upon their input, withhold something this crucial? Answer, because he suspected that one of them was leaking information. He just did not realise how serious the issue was." Sherlock's expression was grave, and his tone acquired a sadder tone. "If he would have read the first case file on the pile, he may have made the connection to Miss Van Kamp. He died not realising how close he was to identifying the truth, nor did he realise that one of few the individuals he had trusted enough to help him with this was one of the very people he was seeking."

Joan slowly made her way over to the couch and sat down. She thought of all the times she saw and spoke to Amelia, her input in meetings, her ability to change the topic of the conversation with ease, and the affect she had on the other members of the team. At first, Joan had assumed that this was due to the men finding her attractive, but now she realised that it could actually be much more complex than that. "Are you sure about this?" She asked, looking up and meeting his stare.

He nodded, not breaking her gaze. "A review of the other cases has revealed that each one has some connection to her, she either worked alongside the defending counsel, or was part of it. She fabricated the relationship with the DA to immediately draw attention towards her personal and professional allegiance to him. She was probably the one who made copies of the cases and delivered them to the DA. She would have insisted upon it, I would imagine. She knew he was getting close to her, and I'm fairly certain she knew of the existence of a private treasure trove of information. That was clear from when we revealed it in one of the meetings, it was the only time she shifted in her seat and stared at me so intently. I found it to be quite unnerving, actually." He stopped, picking up the case files and placing them neatly together. "That is probably why she killed him, she could not risk him getting close to her. With the amount of files in that office, she had no time to find the ones that would directly incriminate herself, not with all the security staff around the place. So she had to risk it. She had to leave, and to ensure that she was completely immersed in the investigation, which she would attempt to control, and draw attention away from herself."

Joan nodded, and was beginning to see the plausibility in what he was saying. More than that, she was beginning to believe it. "So who is the other guy? The man?"

"That, my dear Watson, I do not know. But keeping her unaware of our discovery will allow us to study her further, and I have no doubt that she will lead us to him."

Sherlock explained that he was going to see Detective Bell and personally tell them of their findings, and that he would be back within the hour. While he was gone, Joan worked on tidying and organizing the brownstone, and was stacking the files neatly in a pile when her phone began to ring. She answered the phone whilst edging the piles closer together, and pressing down one of the creased edges of one of the files on the top of the pile. She stopped what she was doing when she heard the familiar voice of the hospital receptionist. Gregson was awake and talking, and had improved greatly. Joan was overjoyed, informed the lady that she would be in immediately, and grabbed her black winter coat, fastening it as she text Sherlock the details, and asked him to meet her at the hospital when he was ready.

When she arrived in the corridor where Gregson's room was situated, she noted a much different atmosphere to the one which had existed previously. The door to his room was open, and laughter could be heard from inside. Several officers who were remaining outside the room were smiling, slapping each other's backs, and sharing in the laughter that was filling the room. Joan smiled, and walked briskly past the officers, who smiled and greeted her politely, and entered the room. Upon seeing her Gregson, who was sitting up in bed, and looking almost his usual self, asked the officers to "give us a minute", which they obeyed instantly and without question, with the final officer to leave closing the door gently behind them.

Gregson and Joan spoke for several minutes in an animated fashion, Joan standing at the bottom of his bed with her hands pressed against it. They discussed the case, Sherlock, and all the recent developments. Gregson stared at her wide eyed as she revealed that they had uncovered the identity of the female killer, and wore the same expression she had when she had first learned of it. As she repeated Sherlock's explanation and justifications, Gregson closed his eyes and nodded slowly, clearly agreeing. They spoke of the case for about ten minutes, with Gregson listening intently and grateful for the information he was being provided with. When there was a slight pause in their conversation, he tilted his head to the side slightly, and watched her with weary eyes.

"So what else do you have to tell me, Miss Watson?" he asked, in a kind yet knowing tone.

"I'm sorry?" she smiled, a laugh catching in her throat.

"Look, I don't mean to pry or anything-" he began, folding his hands together and sitting up slightly straighter. "But you seem, I don't know..." he shrugged, his eyes not leaving her face "what's going on?". Slowly, she edged closer to his side, and her resolve began to fall. Her eyes glistened, and he moved over slightly, tapping the edge of the bed as she sat upon it. He waited patiently for her to start talking. She stared out of the window opposite where she was sitting, not once blinking or looking elsewhere, and it was as if she was in her own little world.

"I'm pregnant." She blurted. The words felt strange to her, to say out loud, at least. She had only said them to one person before, and was unused to speaking them. She stopped staring at the window and shifted slowly on the bed, until she was directly facing Gregson. His face seemed to betray no signs of emotion, his expression refreshingly passive. "The baby is Sherlock's." She stated, her voice low and sombre. This did cause a change in Gregson's face, his eyes widened slightly and his lips were partially parted, but his body did not betray his complete amazement.

"You... you and he-" He gestured with one hand, which would have made Joan laugh if she didn't feel ready to cry. "When? How?" He asked, in a confused tone, but not angry or condemning.

"Thirty-six weeks ago." She replied, her voice slightly louder than it had been when she spoke last.

The Captain seemed perplexed, his eyes moving instantly to her stomach. "But you, you don't even-" 

"I know, I know." She interrupted, as she felt slowly awash with guilt. "Thankfully, the fact that it is February, and that we have had the coldest winter in recent months, means that this coat has been my seasonal best friend." She smiled sadly, before wiping away a tear which she did not realise had fallen.

"And Sherlock?" asked the Captain gently, his gaze following Joan. "How does he feel about all of this?"

Joan bit the side of her cheek and stared down at the ground once more. She could feel her eyes welling up, but refused to cry in front of the Captain. Partly out of a strange sense of pride, but mainly because she knew that if she started she would not be able to stop. "He doesn't know, I haven't told him." Confusion and concern marked the Captain's features, and he sat up straighter in the bed, causing Joan to shift slightly from her space to give him more room. In the next few minutes, she explained everything to him, her reasons for not telling Sherlock, the occasions when she came close, and her current concerns about him. She also explained how she did not feel that they could ensure their child's safety, and so believed that adoption was the best option.

The Captain's wise eyes gazed perceptibly upon her, and he passed her a small box of tissues which were on the stand at the side of his bed. "Miss Watson, I understand what you're saying. I get it. I get where you're coming from and I understand, more than you might think, the urge to protect him." She looked up from the ground, and was grateful that Gregson did not begin his speech by harshly rebuking her, which she felt that she deserved. "But he needs to know. He will figure it out, and even if he doesn't, you can't hide it forever. In fact, in less than a month, there will be no hiding it." He spoke calmly yet with great confidence, and not a hint of anger or disappointment entered his tone. Joan was more grateful for this than she could have explained, she certainly was not able to put it into words. She listened to him, nodding periodically. "Miss Watson, Sherlock Holmes is a mystery. But one thing that is clear, and that is overwhelming, is how he feels about you. You mean a lot to him, more than most people, and he would hate the thought of you going through this alone. Despite being self-centred, needy and downright childish at times, he is a remarkable person, and intuitive individual, and a compassionate human being." The Captain paused for a moment. "Now don't you ever" he stressed the last word notably, "tell him that I said that." Joan smiled sadly at him, and exhaled slowly. "Tell him, Miss Watson. Let him help you. I'm not gonna lie to you, he will be upset. He will feel hurt. But once you tell him all you just told me, he will understand. Despite what many people think, he is not unreasonable, and he thrives on logic, which defines what you just told me." She stared at Gregson for a few moments, before slowly nodding, and thanking him. "He will help you, Miss Watson. He will help you both."

Before she could reply, the door burst open and the man himself appeared. He looked upon the sitting Captain, whose features were marked with concern, and then shifted his attention to Joan, who had turned around quickly when she heard the door opening.

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock asked, his voice displaying his concern.

"Good to see you too, Holmes." Quipped the Captain, pressing his lips together. "Miss Watson was just telling me about the ADA. I couldn't believe it, I mean, I do, obviously but-" he exhaled slowly and shrugged his shoulders. "Always those you least expect, eh? Any leads on her whereabouts?" Joan was grateful for the Captain's quick response, she was not sure she would have been able to conceal what they were discussing. And now, more than ever, she realise that she shouldn't. When they left the hospital and got back to the brownstone, she would tell Sherlock everything. A significant development had been made in the case, Gregson was recovering, and Sherlock was seeming much more like his old self. She believed that Gregson was right, he did deserve to know, he would want to help her and, more than anything, he needed to be told. The Captain was right, she was running out of time.

"No, not as yet." Sherlock replied, moving closer towards the bed. He stood in the space where Joan had previously stood, and rested his hands on the back of the bed. The Captain noticed this, and recalled Joan's own actions. They were more alike than she realised, and he was certain that Sherlock would help her. Heck, the whole department would. They took care of their own, and they would do everything in their power to ensure the safety of Joan and her baby. After his conversation with Joan, he was certain that she realised this, and hoped that it gave her strength.

"But the esteemed Detective Bell is hot on her heels, and it should not be too long before we have eyes on her. If you could possible spare a few members of your fan club, who are currently cluttering the outside corridor, I dare say the investigation will go markedly quicker." The levity in Sherlock's tone was clear, and he and the Captain shared a brief look, one of gratitude and of relief, on both sides. "So glad you are back with us, Captain." Sherlock stated nervously, reclining slightly on his heels.

"Yeah, me too Holmes, me too." He reclined his head slightly and stared at his hands, before looking up to Joan, whose face was etched with concern. She was clearly deep in thought, and was brought out of her reverie once she realised how quiet the room was. "Miss Watson is overworked, Holmes. Take her home, make her some tea, and bask in the glow of your most recent success." He gestured with his hands, before entwining his fingers again, and smiling from Joan to Sherlock. Joan returned his kind smile, mouthed 'thank you' to him, and then rose from the bed, straightened her coat, and walked slowly over to Sherlock's side.

"Of course, Captain." Sherlock stated, his eyes not leaving the recovered man's face. "We shall return presently. I have instructed Detective Bell to keep you updated."

"Thank you, Holmes." The Captain spoke sincerely, as Sherlock turned around and held the door open for Watson. "And I wish you both luck, with these... recent developments." Sherlock nodded, not noticing the grateful look Joan gave to the Captain, before the clicking of her heels greeted the corridor.

The duo walked in almost perfect silence down the corridor, before reaching the elevator. Sherlock and Joan discussed the Captain's recovery, and the former's discussion with Detective Bell. Sherlock seemed happy, optimistic and invigorated, and was practically bouncing whilst the elevator descended. Joan was glad.

By the time they reached the ground floor, Sherlock's mood was slightly more sombre. He led Joan out of the building and towards a parked car, where Alfredo's silhouette could be seen in the driver's seat. Joan smiled, and greeted him politely. Alfredo's eyes lit up and he smiled too, looking up at her from under his cap. "Hey, Miss Watson, good to see you. Hop in." He smiled invitingly, and Joan entered the car. Sherlock closed the door behind her, and walked around to the other side, sitting next to her in the back. The journey to the brownstone was filled with Alfredo's voice, his happiness that Gregson was out of the danger zone, and his unfaltering faith in Sherlock who, he was certain, would foil the rest of the plot.

"I had a lot of help, Alfredo. Credit must be accorded to the wonderful Miss Watson who, as ever, has been magnificent." Sherlock spoke whilst staring straight ahead, never once meeting Joan's eyes. If he had done, he may have noticed the fear and pain which resided in them. She was apprehensive, afraid of what was about to pass between them, but she also felt as one feels before taking an exam which you have revised for, a mixture of fear and awaited relief awash in her mind.

Alfredo parked the car outside the brownstone, and Sherlock got out before Joan even had a chance to undo her seatbelt. He walked across to her side of the car, held the door open for her, and held her hand as she rose from her seat. He touch lingered for a few seconds, and they met each other's gaze. "It occurs to me, Watson, that we never did get to finish our conversation." He spoke quietly, gently, and in a kinder tone than she thought him able. "Would you care to resume it inside?" His tone was not commanding, but seemed almost nervous in asking the question. She nodded slowly, and smiled gently up at him. He returned her smile, before walking around the car and bounding up the stairs to the brownstone like an under-walked puppy, which caused Joan to smile. Alfredo locked the car and followed behind Joan as she began to descend the stairs.

The smile soon disappeared from Joan's face, however, when she reached the fifth or sixth step. She was immediately struck by an intense, crippling pain which shot through her abdomen, causing her right arm to wrap around herself automatically, and she almost lost her balance. She turned slowly to her left, and held on to the side of the stairwell with her left hand, her right arm remaining tightly around her abdomen. The pain was still present, but less intense. She could hear Aflredo's worried voice come from behind her, but she assured him she was fine. She almost believed it too, and moved to ascend the next step, before another similar pain struck her, more painful and much stronger than the one before. It caused her to cry out, and she gripped the side of the stairwell tightly with her left hand, as Alfredo rushed up from behind her and placed an arm across her back, and supported her against the stairwell with the other. By this time Sherlock, who had unlocked the door and entered the property, but turned around when he had heard Watson's cry, was calling out to her and running towards them, concern and panic etched on his face.

"Watson, Watson what is it?" He asked as he reached her, standing to her right and looking from Alfredo to her. She was covering her stomach with her right arm, and Alfredo was looking at her with a mixture of concern and confusion. He and Sherlock shared a bewildered look, before the latter moved in closer to her, placing his hand on her back.

"Joan, Joan what is it?" she looked up, blinking through the pain. He only used her first name a handful of times in the past three years, and it caused her to look up at him slowly, with sad, pleading eyes. She recognised the tightening pains immediately, and understood what was happening. It was a few weeks too early for her to be having contractions, but not unheard of. She could not think straight, it was as though this was not happening to her. Before she could respond, another intense pain struck her, causing her to lean forwards, gripping her abdomen tightly. Sherlock moved his arm lower down her back, and placed his right hand underneath her own, which was resting on her abdomen. Instantly, he felt the shape of her stomach, and even through her coat, he could feel the pain at the bottom of her abdomen. His eyes grew wide and he met her stare, with a mixture of fear and confusion swimming in his eyes. He moved his hand slowly around her entire stomach, causing her to begin to cry softly.

"Sherlock, I... I'm so sorry..."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock stared at Joan for what felt like an eternity, his mind and his heart racing at equal speed. Feelings of confusion, bewilderment, sadness and anticipation all flooded through him seemingly at the same time, but he was broken from his rapid thinking by the pained and fearful expression on Joan's face. It occurred to him then that he had never actually seen her cry before.

His hands were still resting on her lower back and abdomen, and before he could speak, another wave of pain consumed her, and she cried out once more, almost falling to the ground. Sherlock and Alfredo caught her just in time, Sherlock wrapping one of his arms around her back and the other supported her front, as he helped Alfredo to lift her. Joan leaned into Alfredo, one arm wrapped tightly around her stomach, as if in a desperate attempt to block the pain. She was breathing sharply, and her gentle and occasional cries continued as Alfredo began to carry Joan up the stairs and into the brownstone.

"Bring her to my room, Alfredo!" Ordered Sherlock, rushing up the stairs ahead of Alfredo and the sobbing Joan, and he threw open his bedroom door. He rushed immediately over to his bed, propping up his pillows, and placing the large cushions neatly side by side, before calling Alfredo's attention towards him. "Lie her down, careful. Slowly, slowly Alfredo!" Alfredo was being as slow and as gentle as he could, and was still completely at a loss as to what was wrong with Joan. He followed Sherlock's instructions, and lay her gently upon the bed. She immediately turned onto her left side, bent her head down to her chest and tried to steady her breathing. She drew her legs together and lay in the foetal position as Sherlock watched over her, a feeling of helplessness overcoming him. But only for a moment. Joan's eyes were firmly closed, and she was trying desperately to calm herself. Even through her pain, she wanted to appear strong for Sherlock, and was desperate to explain. This was not how she thought it would happen, and she was even more terrified than she believed could be humanly possible. Sherlock, clearly sensing her fear and agitation, walked slowly over to her, acting uncertainly, as if fearful that his touch would bring her more pain, and placed one hand on her lower back and another on her shoulder, and he began whispering comfortingly to her. "It's alright, you're going to be alright, Joan. Just breathe."

"Alfredo, I need you to go to into the closet in the bathroom, and gather some blankets, bedding and towels. Also, there is a large, black medical case to the right of the bathroom door, please bring that too." The confused Alfredo acted immediately, and Sherlock removed his jacket, threw it across a chair, and returned to Joan. By this time Joan, still in a considerable amount of pain, had opened her eyes and was attempting to lean on her left arm and push herself up from the bed.

"No, Joan, please, remain lying down. It's alright, just keep calm, it's okay." He spoke softly but authoritatively, and had moved back towards her and was slowly easing her onto the bed. It occurred to her that she had never lay on his bed before, and the sheets and pillows were heavy with his comforting scent.

She stared up at him, sensing the fear and concern in his expression, and was utterly bewildered that he was not furious with her. Well, not outwardly, at least. The pain, she mused, was more bearable than the unimaginable torment she was experiencing at the knowledge of her deception, and that the aforementioned deception was brought to Sherlock's attention in such a way. She had meant to tell him slowly and gently, but instead he was thrown into the deep end, unprepared and uninformed. Joan knew that they did not have time to take her to the hospital before the baby arrived, and, based on the pieces of his orders to Alfredo that she was able to make out, Sherlock realised this too.

Before she could speak, she shifted slightly on the bed, before rising slightly once more.

"Joan, please, I assure you, it's-"

"No, I'm not... I think my waters just broke."

Sherlock moved down the bed and saw that the middle section of his sheets were saturated with liquid, and he felt a surge of panic which he quickly pushed to the back of his mind. He needed to help her, to comfort her, and to ensure that she and the baby were alright. He walked back to her, swept her hair from her eyes, and knelt down beside her.

"Joan, it is quite alright. You are correct, your waters have broken. But you do not need to panic, it will be fine. You and I are more than able to deal with this situation, and I will help you. Although it is hard to judge from where I am standing, and from your attire, I would estimate that your pregnancy coincided with our dalliance?" His voice was kind, compassionate and incredibly sincere, without the slightest hint of anger or disappointment. In a way, this made Joan feel even more guilty, as she believed his kindness was better than she deserved. Sherlock rose from his kneeling position and leant over her, placing one hand at the bottom of her back and the other on the bed, slightly in front of her abdomen. She looked deep into his eyes, and breathed in slowly before calming herself and trying to talk. "Yes. The baby is yours, Sherlock." She breathed in once more, wanting to keep talking as she feared his next words. "I am so sorry, I-".

"Hush, it's alright, Joan, it's alright. Just try to remain calm, breathe as deeply as you can, it's alright." As he finished speaking, Alfredo re-entered the room, and placed the items which Sherlock had requested on one of the chairs at the back of the room. Sherlock offered Joan a few reassuring words, before walking briskly over to Alfredo. He instructed his sponsor to go to the address of a doctor he knew, and bring her to the brownstone. Joan could not hear the address, as another wave of pain struck her, and she exhaled sharply, trying not to scream, and was unaware of anything that occurred afterwards until she felt Sherlock's presence by her side.

"Joan, I need to remove this bedding from under you, and then I will need to remove your coat, boots and other items of clothing, alright?" He spoke candidly and confidently, and she nodded slowly as she met his gaze. She shifted slightly to allow him to remove the duvet from the bed, and then placed her hands at the front of her coat to remove it. She froze, suddenly realising how afraid she was. Despite him now knowing of her condition, he had not yet seen the evidence for himself, and she was frightened of how he would react to this. She did not fear an angry outburst, not in the least; she believed that he would be frightened, uncertain, and was sure that beneath his calm and collected exterior, he was trembling.

Evidently sensing her distress, he moved closer to her and sat on the edge of the bed, inches away from her. She looked up at him with her tearful, glistening eyes. "I am so, so sorry Sherlock. I should have told you, but I just-"

"Joan, I assure you," he began, his calm and kind voice resonating throughout the room. "I am not angry. I confess to being confused and-" he broke off, not breaking her gaze, but uncertain of how to phrase his emotions. This was not his strong point, and it was not something he found easy to discuss when he felt that the entirety of his attention needed to be focused on Joan and the baby. "-and hurt. But I know you, I know your character, and I know that whatever your logic, you were acting in what you believed to be the best interests of myself and our child." His voice was softer, quieter than it had been. Almost as if the words felt strange to him, and so he was trying them out covertly, to see how well they fit. "You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, do you understand?" She nodded immediately, lowering her head slightly, and unfastening the buttons of her black coat. Sherlock rose from the bed and took a few steps back, as he was conscious that she would not wish to feel crowded or intruded upon. As she finished undoing her buttons, she leant slowly forwards and pulled of her thick, black heeled boots, placing them upon the floor. She turned back to Sherlock, tears still in her eyes, and she allowed the coat to fall slowly from her shoulders. Sherlock moved forward to collect it, folded it over his arm, and turned to face her once more.

She was beautiful. She was wearing a pair of thick, black leggings underneath a long, white, cotton dress, which had a high neckline and arms which went down to Joan's elbows. The dress was fitted, and fell elegantly across her curved abdomen. As if self conscious, Joan raised her left hand to her stomach, before breathing in sharply as she felt another contraction. She did not wish to complain, but they were becoming less and less bearable, and she worried that she would not be able to handle them once they were stronger. She was also conscious of how much seeing her in pain would affect Sherlock, and this caused a new wave of fear, guilt and dread to come crashing over her. As she looked up, she saw Sherlock crossing the space between them, and he perched himself once more on the edge of the bed. His attention was focused not on her face, but on her abdomen. He stared at her stomach, completely mesmerised, before turning his head towards her sharply. "May I...?"

"Of course." She whispered, knowing what his question was before he had even finished it.

Sherlock placed his right hand gently upon the front of her stomach, and Joan inhaled sharply, feeling the same comfort and empowerment that she had done when he was comforting her in the hospital. Slowly, he placed his left hand on the other side of her stomach, and leaned forward. "Quite remarkable." He whispered, running his left hand gently across her abdomen, before slowly withdrawing both hands. Joan suddenly felt colder without his comfort. However, this was soon overtaken by another wave of pain which, as she predicted, was far stronger than the previous. She cried out once more, leaning forwards and drawing her outstretched legs closer to her body. This caused Sherlock to move from the bed quickly, and her walked to stand by her side, placing one hand on her lower back and the other upon her own hand, which was holding tightly onto her stomach. He was comforting her kindly and gently, telling her that everything was going to be fine, that he would make sure that she and their baby would be alright, and that she had absolutely nothing to worry about.

"How can... how can you be so calm? And so kind?" she asked, trying to regain her composure after recovering from the last contraction.

"I have told you, Joan" he began kindly, "because I care about you, and trust you implicitly. We have plenty of time to discuss the events of the past nine months, but that time has not arrived quite yet. There is someone else who seems to be demanding it."

Joan half-smiled, before feeling tearful once more, and breathing ruggedly. Sherlock realised that the pain, the date, and the fear of his reaction were causing her to panic. Panic was the last thing that she needed, he knew. She needed to remain calm, to be soothed, comforted. Seeing her in this much physical and emotional pain completely overwhelmed him, and he had meant every word of comfort that he had said to her. He could not understand how he could not have observed or deduced her pregnancy, but given that their attention had been solely on the case, that she was no longer living with him and that it had been an exceptionally cold winter which had necessitated multiple layers, he understood how her condition could be concealed from others, but not from him. He was not angry at her for not telling him. He had already told her that and meant it. He felt upset, confused and hurt, but these feelings were dwarfed by his knowledge of Joan's character. Whatever the reason, and whatever the logic behind that reason, no matter how inaccurate, he was certain that she believed that she was acting in the best interests of himself and their baby. He suspected part of the reason was due to the necessity of his remaining focused on the case, and he also deduced that she was perhaps frightened of his reaction to the news, but the rest evaded him somewhat. As he left her side and walked to the front of the room, collecting the blankets and medical case and placing them at the end of the bed, it occurred to him that there was perhaps an even greater reason for her not telling him.

"Did you believe that the baby would not be safe with me?" He blurted out, looking up to her from the bottom of the bed.

Joan felt as though her heart would break. His question was sudden but not completely unanticipated, and she thought for a few seconds for the correct wording of her response.

"I trust you more than anyone, and I believe in you more than I have ever believed in any person or idea that I have ever encountered. I knew that you would do everything you could to protect our baby, we both would." She began, pausing to allow him to take in her words, to hear her confidence in him. "But I was afraid that whatever we did, it would not be enough. That we would not be able to keep-" She rose her hand to her mouth to prevent the sobbing which she had not known that she had began. As she was speaking, Sherlock understood her fears completely, and felt even more compassion and sadness than he had ever felt before. His feelings were complex and multi-faceted, but he was trying to push them to the back of his mind for the time being, whilst he attended to Joan. But he still felt the pain, confusion and anguish that he suspected she had felt too. And it was unbearable. He could not fathom how she had been able to cope with it for so long, with no one to confide in. As he thought this, he suddenly remembered Jane Holloway, and finally understood her role in Joan's life. He rose slowly from the bottom of the bed and walked towards her, sitting on the edge of the bed once more. "I know that you did everything you possible could in these last months to ensure the safety of not only our child, but of myself." She looked up at him, removing her hand from her mouth, amazement glistening in her eyes. "And I cannot thank you enough for that. I understand, Joan, I truly do. And we will discuss this, we will discuss everything, I promise you. But right now, we need to make sure that this baby arrives safely."

She nodded quickly, before slowly starting to speak. "Thank you." She whispered, before clearing her throat and trying to compose herself. Her next words sounded more confident, stronger and calmer than she had done this evening. "My contractions are about two minutes apart, it isn't going to be long now-" before she could finish, she felt another familiar pain in her abdomen, and this time it was so strong that it took her breath away. She grabbed the edge of the bed forcefully and leaned forward, trying to control her breathing. Her head caught Sherlock's shoulder who, instead of moving away, leaned towards her, drew her head closer to wards him, and rubbed her back soothingly, repeating his kind utterings of reassurance. He observed that this contraction lasted longer than the previous three, and noted that their baby's arrival was much closer than Joan realised.

"Oh, oh my-" Joan began to speak, panic gripping her voice. Sherlock removed his hands from her and placed them on her shoulders, slowly easing her back as she spoke.

"Joan? Joan you're alright, Joan, what is it?" He asked calmly, yet a degree of urgency was evident in his voice.

"It's time, it's coming, I-" the next wave of pain took her breath away, and Sherlock ran his hand down her arm comfortingly, telling her that it was okay, that she would be fine, and instructed her to continue trying to breathe as calmly as she could. Seeing her in this much pain devastated him, but he was currently acting on adrenaline, his actions being governed by his intelligence and understanding of the situation. Joan was a highly intelligent trained medical professional, he was confident that she knew what she was doing. Similarly, he felt that he was equally able of helping her in this situation, and ensuring the safety of both her and their baby. He had sent Alfredo to collect a doctor he had worked with a couple of years before, in a case involving young children, and he was certain that her expertise would be required. He knew that the baby would be arriving slightly early, and racked his brain for the statistics and issues facing babies born at this stage. The indicators were reassuring, but he was aware of the need to have a trained medical practitioner in the vicinity. The dangers of moving Joan now far outweighed the risks of her remaining, and he did not believe that she would have made it to the hospital on time.

He walked to the end of the bed and picked up one of the soft, white blankets, placing it to one side. He moved the medical kit to the floor, and then walked quickly back to Joan, who was leaning back and regaining her breath. "Joan, Joan can you hear me?" He asked, leaning towards her.

"Of course I can, I'm fine, I-"

"You don't have to pretend to be fine, Joan. I will not attempt to tell you how much pain I imagine you to be in at this moment. What I need, Joan, is your help."

She opened her eyes and focused on him intently, already knowing what he was about to say.

"I don't think we can wait until my medical associate arrives, Joan, I don't think we have the time-" He was cut off by Joan, who breathed in heavily before being hit by another contraction, this one longer than the one before. Sherlock watched her with fear and concern, and was struggling to see her in so much pain. "Joan, Joan listen to me, Joan. We can do this. You and I are more than capable of doing this, alright? You are so strong, and as a former doctor, you know exactly what is happening, at each stage, and what will happen at the next." She shook her head slowly, before trying once more to steady her breath. "Joan, I have complete faith in you. I know you can do this. Look how far you have come already, look at what you have been though. We can do this Joan, I promise you. We will do it together. You and I, yes?"

He sounded calm and very certain, very confident. This reassured Joan slightly, but her temporary certainty was damaged by each contraction that followed. She wasn't sure she would be able to do this. Once she had dealt with the pain, and recomposed herself, and steadied be breathing, she began thinking of what would happen to the baby afterwards. The uncertainty, fear, and internal conflict that she felt at this prospect matched the pain she was experiencing in both severity and affect.

"I don't think I can do this. Any of it, I-" she broke off, her eyes glassy and her breathing quickening. "I can't believe that I thought I could. It was so stupid, so-" she fought back the tears and breathed in quickly, deeply, steadying herself by pressing down firmly upon the bed.

"Look how far you have come, Joan. Consider the threats over the past nine months. You have overcome them all, you have protected our child and you have protected me." He spoke calmly and with more emotion than she had ever heard in his voice before. "And now, it is my turn to look after both of you." She looked up at him after this statement, gratitude and adoration glistening in her eyes. She realised that he knew her fears were not just related to the pain, but to their child's future. "We can help each other and we can help our baby." He began, pausing momentarily. The word 'baby' still felt strange to him, when used in this context. But he found Joan's pain, their present conversation and the current context a remarkably sobering experience. "We can get through this stage together, and then we will get through the next one. And the next, and the next, and all those that follow. I promise you Joan, you have my word." She had not broken his gaze throughout his speech, and her breathing was markedly calmer and more consistent than it had been in the past thirty minutes or so. "Please let me help you now." He continued. "Both of you."

Joan nodded, and shifted slightly on the bed. Sherlock moved once more to the foot of the bed, and placed his hands just below her feet. She nodded quickly, and began loosening her leggings from around her hips. She pushed them down slowly, and Sherlock continued the motion, removing them entirely, and placing them on a chair which was resting against the wall to the left of the bed. He then moved up towards Joan, offering her words of kindness and reassurance, as she removed her underwear and pushed herself up until she was leaning against the headboard. Sherlock adjusted the cushions behind her, and asked whether she was comfortable. She nodded slowly, meeting his gaze once more. "You are going to be absolutely fine, Joan, you both will. I promise." He spoken sincerely, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She was deeply moved by this, and by his care. She was overcome with gratitude, and was beginning to believe that they did have options, and that they would be able to figure out what to do.

Sherlock moved to the bottom of the bed, and picked up the white blanket. He shook it in the air, so it opened up completely, before folding it once in half. Joan raised her legs slightly and placed them at either side of the bed, and Sherlock draped the blanket across the tops of her legs, before once more telling her that she was going to be alright. And she believed him.

Ten minutes later, after eight contractions, Sherlock safely delivered his and Joan's baby girl. He held the child carefully in his hands, before resting her gently upon the bed. He reached to the side and selected another white blanket, similar to the first one, and wrapped her up carefully in it. Her bright eyes opened, and she surveyed his face curiously. He lifted her the swaddled baby from the bed, and held her close to his chest, staring in awe upon her. She was beautiful. She weighed around six pounds, and had lovely, dark hair. He recognised her bright, intelligent eyes as his own, but the rest of her was unmistakably Joan. He was staring at her in wonder, having already assured himself that she was healthy, and was brought from his thoughts by Joan's voice which, despite seeming understandable tired, sounded almost as it normally did.

"Is the baby okay? Sherlock?"

Sherlock rose slowly and carried the baby over to Joan, his eyes not leaving the infant's face. When he reached Joan's side, he leant over her slightly, meeting her tired eyes. "She is perfect, Joan. She is absolutely perfect." He held her tightly for a moment more, before slowly lowering her towards Joan, who rose her arms slowly and held her with great care. Sherlock stared down upon Joan holding the baby, her breathing increasing as she fought back the tears, and she held her daughter closer to her, adjusted the blankets around her face, and then stared up towards Sherlock. "Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you." For the first time that evening, she smiled, a bright, infectious smile. Sherlock returned the smile, before seating himself cautiously at her side, and shifting his gaze from her to their baby's beautiful and alert face.

"Thank you, Joan." He began, his voice steady yet filled with a magnitude of emotions. She rose her head slightly to meet his bright, shining eyes, and they shared a look which they each knew they would always remember. "Thank you."


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock and Joan sat in almost complete silence for several minutes, with the occasional gurgling of their daughter being the only sound to draw them from their reveries. Joan was sat up, propped up by Sherlock's pillows, and was cradling the baby, whilst Sherlock sat on the bed near her legs, which were still covered with the white blanket, and gazed serenely upon the scene.

"You can move a little closer if you like." Joan offered kindly, observing that Sherlock seemed to be pondering over whether his presence was some kind of intrusion. He looked up at her following her invitation, and shifted himself further up the bed, slowly and carefully, as he knew that Joan would still be in moderate pain and discomfort. He was seated by her waist, supporting himself by placing one hand over her hips and resting it on the bed, careful not to hurt her. He looked down upon the baby, and reached his hand slowly towards her face. As if anticipating his movement, she opened her eyes wide, and gurgled lightly as he stroked her cheek. Joan had never seen Sherlock so enraptured, so completely engaged in something before. She supposed that this was new to him, and that he had not been around children too often, certain not children this young, and most definitely not ones which were biologically his, and that he had just helped to safely deliver. Joan shifted her attention from Sherlock's face and back to their daughter, whose delicate features were divine. Like Sherlock, Joan observed that the infant had her father's eyes, but most of her other features were her mother's. Her nose and mouth seemed to be a combination of both her parents, and from the length of her limbs Joan judged that she would be petite, but possibly slightly taller than herself. Not that it mattered to her in the least, Joan completely adored her.

Before either of them could speak, the sound of the front door opening drew both of them from their thoughts. Joan instinctively held the baby closer to her chest, whilst Sherlock gazed back briefly, before turning back to Joan.

"It is only Alfredo" he reassured her, sensing her panic. "It's Alfredo, Joan, I sent him out to acquire the assistance of an associate of mine who is a doctor at the new private hospital." Joan nodded slowly and uncertainly, but was reassured as Alfredo's familiar footsteps greeted the stairs and he, closely followed by a slightly shorter, slimmer older gentleman, entered the room. It was clear from his face and his reaction to the scene that, despite all the evidence, Alfredo had still not worked out the cause of Joan's pain. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes widening, his mouth agape. He rose his hand and pointed to the baby, before taking a few steps forward. He tried to talk, but found himself unable to. Sherlock, clearly enjoying this experience, rose quickly and walked over to Alfredo. Alfredo did not seem to see him come towards him, and remained staring at Joan and the baby. Joan offered a small, tired smile, before greeting Alfredo pleasantly.

"Thank you, Alfredo, your help has been invaluable." Sherlock began, drawing his sponsor's attention towards himself. "As you can see, Miss Watson has recently become a mother, and she and her child are in need of medical attention." Sherlock turned to the figure who had moved from behind Alfredo, and had now entered the room. "Thank you for coming so promptly, Dr Richards." Sherlock extended his hand, which was accepted and shaken with enthusiasm by the doctor.

"Not at all, Holmes, the least I could do. As I told you before, I am indebted to you." The doctor sounded kind, with not an ounce of frustration or sarcasm present in his voice. He was clearly speaking sincerely, and the way he was with Sherlock made it clear to Joan that they were long and trusted acquaintances. From the doctor's pronounced British accent, Joan wondered whether they had met in London. She also noticed that the doctor seemed much less surprised than Alfredo, and she suspected that, despite his apparent obliviousness to the fact, he had described Joan's symptoms to the medic who had correctly judged what the issue was. He had an air of calmness and confidence about him which reassured Joan, and his kind face made her feel instantly at ease.

"Joan Watson, this is Doctor Thomas Richards," Sherlock stated, holding his hand up to the doctor, before turning to view Joan. "He and I were acquainted in London, and worked together in relation to some unfortunate business in his private practice in Harley Street some seven years ago." Joan nodded in understanding, and greeted the doctor pleasantly, thanking him for coming.

"My dear, you are most welcome." He smiled, lowering his head slightly and drawing his medical bag in front of him. "Now, it does not take the deductive mind of the genius that is Sherlock Holmes to work out why I have been summoned at this hour." Joan smiled awkwardly, and Sherlock returned his gaze to the doctor. Alfredo, who appeared to be coming out of his stupor, was sitting in a chair to the right of the room by a window, his attention fixed on the baby in Joan's arms.

"No, Doctor, indeed it does not." Replied Sherlock, leaning back on his heels and straightening his arms by his side, before walking slowly back towards Joan, standing by her side, and turning to face the doctor, who remained where he was. "I am most grateful for your presence and your time. This all happened rather quickly, as I'm sure is apparent, and I would like to be assured of Miss Watson's health, and the health of our child."

Alfredo's glance shot up, which caught Sherlock's attention immediately. "You... you two... you guys had a baby? How?"

"I'm sure your mother will tell you in good time, Alfredo. In the meantime, I want to thank you once more for your help." She looked kindly upon his friend, who was now standing. "The outcome may have been much more grave had it not been for your assistance." Alfredo nodded slowly, glancing with interest from Sherlock to Joan, as if expecting a further explanation.

"Why didn't you tell me, man? I could've-" Unable to hear someone question Sherlock's honestly or integrity, certainly not in this sense, Joan cut Alfredo off before he could finish talking.

"He didn't know, Alfredo." She spoke in a low yet firm voice, looking up to meet Alfredo's curious stare, as Sherlock turned slowly to face her. He was perfectly willing to defend his perceived failures to Alfredo, he certainly did not intend for her to fall on her sword in such a manner. "He didn't know because I didn't tell him." Her voice was tinged with sadness, and she dropped her gaze temporarily to the baby, before looking up once more to meet Sherlock's gaze. In his eyes, she was certain that she could see kindness, compassion and, as she correctly deduced, forgiveness. Not that Sherlock believed she had done anything that warranted him to forgive her. He understood her actions, and empathised with them, more than she realised. He would talk to her about it soon, he noted, and would alleviate the heavy burden which her guilt had placed upon her. Throughout this incident, the doctor had not moved or spoken, and did not seem to be in the least surprised or confused by any of the events. His calm, composed presence remained a reassuring constant feature for everyone who was in the room.

"It's rather complicated, Alfredo, but I assure you that I will explain everything to you once I am able. In the meantime, I would ask you to keep your knowledge of this event to yourself." Alfredo nodded, giving his solemn word that their secret was safe. He nodded politely to Joan, offering her a smile and warm congratulations. She thanked him graciously, and was more grateful for his words that he realised. She knew how close Sherlock and Alfredo were, and could only imagine how defensive he would be of the rights of his friend, and how condemning he would be of her actions. In this thought, which was far from a true reflection of Alfredo's own assessment of the situation, she failed to consider one important factor: Alfredo's thoughts on her. He admired her kindness, gentle nature and ability to support Holmes and his exploits, and held her in the highest regard. Whatever the reason for her actions, he decided, Sherlock would have already worked out, and judged it to be correct. And, as he trusted Sherlock's judgement almost as much as he did his own, Alfredo was certain that Miss Watson had not knowingly committed a wrong. He was brought from his thoughts by Sherlock's voice, who was calling him back into the present situation. "Alfredo, I have one final request, if I may." Alfredo turned to him and nodded eagerly.

"Whatever you guys need." He stated simply, yet with notable conviction.

Sherlock pointed to a pile of sheets, which were tangled and slightly bloodied, and were lying on the floor at the bottom of the bed. "I would like you to take these items and burn them, if you would. All traces of them must be destroyed. They are the only evidence of what transpired in this room this evening." Sherlock looked quickly to Joan, whose expression was one of mild amusement. "Well, except for the child resting in Miss Watson's arms, of course." He leaned back on his heels once more, and Alfredo walked past him, collecting the sheets and walking towards the door.

"I'll do it under the bridge near the park, no one will be there now, not at this time on a winter's night. If you need me, you call, understand?" He spoke authoritatively as he glanced from Sherlock to Joan. "Anything I can do for you too, Miss Watson, you call me, okay?" She nodded, thanking him once more, and was truly grateful for his kindness and forgiveness.

Alfredo the departed, shutting the bedroom door as he left, and Joan stared from Sherlock's impassive face to the figure of the doctor, who was standing in the same spot. Sherlock moved slowly towards Joan, and sat next to her on the bed in the same spot he had occupied before Alfredo's return. "Joan, Dr Richards is a highly experienced doctor, who specialises in paediatrics. He is above reproach and I trust him implicitly." He spoke slowly and confidently, his eyes never leaving her face. "And, if you are comfortable with him doing do, I would like him to make sure that you and the baby are quite alright. After this, we can discuss our next move." Joan glanced from Sherlock to the doctor and, subconsciously, drew the baby closer to her chest, and gazed down upon her. She did not speak for a few moments, although she chewed her bottom lip slightly before gazing up. "I understand your concerns, and I know that you have been through a great ordeal." Sherlock continued compassionately, in a gently and understanding tone. "And I would not ask anything of you which would risk your physical or emotional well-being. I also understand that the last thing you probably want right now is anyone, especially someone you do not know, examining you. I'd imagine you're quite exhausted, and would like nothing more than to rest." Joan had not made eye contact with Sherlock, but was staring towards the right of the room, and taking in his every word.

She turned slowly, looked at Sherlock's concerned face, and turned to the doctor. "Would you... would you please make sure she's okay?" She began, shifting forward slightly as she prepared to pass her daughter to the doctor. The doctor acted immediately, moving briskly across the room and standing next to Joan. Sherlock had not moved from his position, but was watching Joan kindly, and gently soothing her when she seemed to be once more uncertain as the doctor approached her. "I... I checked her over just now and, um..." Joan began as the doctor placed his medical bag down and moved to accept the baby. "Her breathing seems normal, strong, and her heart rate is fine. She seems very alert and very wary of her surroundings, and responds to the sound of our voices." Joan looked up, and viewed the kind expression the doctor wore on his face. He nodded approvingly, commended her medical abilities, and asked whether she minded him examining the baby. He spoke gently and compassionately, and made it clear that what he was asking was a request and not an order. Joan looked to Sherlock, whose eyes had not left her face, and who smiled supportively. She slowly moved forwards, and gently passed the baby to the doctor, who held her carefully, glanced down upon her, and then returned his gaze to Joan.

Joan's body tensed slightly the moment she passed the baby to the doctor, and Sherlock immediately reached out his hand and held her own, before moving closer to her. "It's alright, Joan. I assure you. It is quite alright." The same kindness had not left his voice, and Joan felt herself slowly become more at ease.

"She is very beautiful." The doctor commented, smiling politely at Joan. "I understand this is difficult, Miss Watson, but I assure you I will be as quick and efficient as I can, and then I will return your daughter to you." Joan nodded, and Sherlock turned himself around so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, still holding Joan's hand, but facing the doctor, who was walking towards the other side of the room. "I will examine your daughter at the bottom of the bed, alright? Slightly unorthodox, I know, but I'm sure it will be better for you both if you can see her constantly." Joan nodded, smiling gratefully, before shifting slightly to watch as she gently lowered the baby onto the bottom of the bed. As she was laid down gently upon the bed, the baby reached out her arms, which appeared from beneath the blanket, and began to move her limbs, kicking aside her blanket.

Joan leaned forward as she saw her daughter moving, and Sherlock squeezed her hand tightly, in a reassuring manner.

"Well, she appears to be a very strong little girl, which is wonderful. Slightly early, was she?" The doctor asked, as he gently lifted her limbs one by one, before turning slightly around.

"Yes, she was born at thirty six weeks." Joan stated, her eyes not leaving the baby.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, and reached down to the ground, lifting the medical bag and passing it to the doctor.

"Ah, thank you Holmes, yes, just what I needed." He nodded gratefully, placing the bag upon the ground, then turning back to Joan. "Thirty six? Right, right okay. Well, she appears perfectly healthy, and your assessment of her, Miss Watson, was astute and completely correct. There are clear signs of her early arrival, but I would estimate that she weights just under six pounds, which is good. Although" he continued, wrapping her back in her blanket and carrying her back towards her mother. "it would be remiss of me not to recommend that you both be taken to hospital to be checked over, and that blood work be ran on you both, just to be safe. Although I see absolutely nothing to worry about regarding the health of your baby" he assured them both, as Sherlock stood and moved back slightly to allow the baby to be passed back to Joan, who received her gratefully, her demeanour instantly relaxing. Sherlock watched her for a moment, and admired the scene in front of him. He could tell from Joan's expressions, her speech, and her body language that she was finding it difficult to be away from her child, and immediately wondered if she was reconsidering the idea of the child being looked after by her, by them, if she would allow it. He was flooded with concern and wonder, which he was brought back from as the doctor slowly moved to stand beside him.

"Miss Watson, your daughter is absolutely fine, I assure you." He stated simply and confidently, drawing her attention back to him. "Now, what I would also like to do, as I am sure you will be aware, is to examine you, to make sure that everything is alright." Both the doctor and Sherlock sensed that this was something that Joan was concerned about. The doctor thought this could be due to embarrassment, or feeling overwhelmed, but Sherlock considered it to be due to another reason. He believed that she did not wish to be examined because she felt the entirety of the doctor's attention, of everyone's attention, should be placed upon her daughter. The baby should be the focus of everyone's concerns, not Joan. Joan's guilt had overcome here during the past hour or so, and she felt undeserving of the kind attention and treatment she was receiving. Even more so when she considered that it was all due to Sherlock, who, she knew, was acquainted with many doctors, and probably selected this one due to his kindness, compassion and perfect bedside manner. As well as his qualifications, of course. Sherlock sensed her ease, correctly deduced the reason, and sought to alleviate her pain.

"Joan, we need to make sure that you are alright." He began slowly, gently easing her in to a conversation which he knew that she would be finding difficult. "We know that the baby is fine, she is absolutely fine, Joan." He continued, placing emphasis on the word 'fine'. "But because of her early delivery, and the fact that the only medical professional present was the patient" his tone remained kind, but he attempted to incorporate a lighter element to his words in order to reassure Joan. "it is imperative that we make sure that you are alright, that you are healthy. From your movement, speech and demeanour I would say that you are fine, but we do need to be sure." He stated calmly, kindly. "We need to be sure of that above all else."

She met his gaze, and held it. Staring into the depths of his eyes, she felt the overwhelming concern he had for her, and realised he was right. She knew he was, regardless. As a former surgeon and as the patient, she knew that she needed to be checked over before they could do anything else, and the quicker she allowed it, the faster they could act, and the safer the baby would be. She consented to the exam, passing the baby slowly over to Sherlock, whilst the doctor kindly and gently explained what he was doing. When he was finished, he repeated Sherlock's sentiments, assuring Joan that she was fine, and that Sherlock should consider a change of profession and work as a midwife. Joan smiled, even laughing slightly, as Sherlock moved to pass the baby back to her.

She looked upon her daughter adoringly, but stared up to Sherlock's face instead of extending her arms. "You haven't had a change to really hold her yet, have you?" she asked kindly, her voice gentle and sweet. Sherlock rose his eyes to gaze at Joan's face, and she smiled reassuringly at him. "Some people can be quite nervous around babies, they get worried about holding them. Some people even dislike the experience altogether." She paused momentarily, before tilting her head slightly and continuing. "You clearly aren't one of those people, and I think that it is most definitely your turn to hold her, if you want to, of course." She finished, smiling once more at him so he knew that she was alright.

"Thank you, Joan." He stated after a few moments, before looking down to the now sleeping infant's face. He adjusted his hands slightly, and held here with ease and confidence. It was a beautiful sight to see, and Joan immersed herself completely in it. "Now, Joan, should you feel anxious or concerned, or wish to-"

"It's fine Sherlock, really. I'm fine. Watching you hold her alleviates all my anxiety." She smiled, before her face adopted a slightly sadder expression. "She seems so safe, there, in your arms."

Sherlock shared a look with her, moved towards her slowly, and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. Her attention was focused on the baby, and he did not meet his gaze. Before he could speak, the doctor approached them, and began to talk.

"As you know, Holmes, I maintain a high position and standing at the hospital and as, I presume, you wish to keep this child a secret for the time being, it is possible for me to escort you all in unnoticed, and treat you personally. There are several rooms which are unoccupied, some quite out of the way of the rest of the patients and medical staff." He turned to Joan, and continued speaking. "I can enter you and your daughter under false names, treat you both personally, and keep your stay there a secret. You will have the utmost privacy, Miss Watson, and, when you are ready, you and Mr Holmes can depart, and continue with whatever it is that you plan to do next." Joan considered this offer for a moment. It was a good plan, she had no doubt. It was well thought out, meticulous, and highly plausible. She was also keen to ensure that the baby had a full work up, just to make sure she was as fine as Joan and the doctor believed her to be. Joan nodded slowly, after looking to Sherlock's face, as if for approval or input.

"It is a good plan, Joan, and it would allow us the privacy and the time to consider what to do next." He spoke gently, meeting her gaze once more. She nodded again, and thanked the doctor, who smiled kindly at her, returning a few reassuring words.

"My car is outside, Miss Watson, I will gladly drive you all. It is dark, we can enter through an entrance near the ambulance bay, where we will be completely unnoticed, I assure you." She nodded, before concern overcame her features.

"We... we don't have a car seat." She stated, glancing from the doctor to Sherlock.

"Actually, Joan, we do." Stated Sherlock, amusement apparent in his voice. He slowly returned the baby to her mother, before briskly walking from the room, across the hall, and returning within seconds, carrying a brand new black car seat, which was still covered in plastic wrapping. He held it up by his right hand, as a child would who had just won a prize at a fair.

"How... why would you even have that?" Joan smiled, completely baffled.

"Well it was released last week, and the company claimed the chairs to be fireproof. I, of course, wanted to disprove them, so I ordered three." He smiled, leaning back slightly on his heels. "The company proved to be quite correct in their assertions, and the smashed remains of the other two seats can be found at the local city dump."

For the first time that evening, Joan laughed as sweetly and as confidently as she had done since finding out about her pregnancy. She held the baby close to her chest, and watched Sherlock warily as he approached her, ripping the remaining plastic sheeting from the carrier. The doctor, clearly used to scenes of this nature, looked to the ground and suppressed a smile, before turning his attention to Joan once more. "Miss Watson, I will leave you to dress, collect a few things, and gather yourself. I will wait for you downstairs, if that is alright?" Sherlock nodded, and the doctor turned back to Joan. "Please take your time, Miss Watson, and don't overdo it. Many people underestimate the effect of childbirth upon the mother immediately after delivery."

"Miss Watson is a doctor, doctor." Sherlock smiled genially. "And I will help her all I can." The doctor smiled, picked up his case, and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Sherlock moved closer to Joan, placed the car seat on the floor, and sat by her side once more, gazing adoringly upon their sleeping daughter.

"I don't suppose you-" he began, pausing briefly, before assuring himself he could continue. "I don't suppose that you have decided upon a name?" Sherlock's question took Joan by surprise. Which, quite frankly, startled her. It was a perfectly reasonable question, but it concerned her for two reasons. First, the fact that she had strongly considered, and was still contemplating, the option of adoption, Joan was uncertain of whether she would be able to name the baby. Secondly, the phrasing of Sherlock's question seemed to imply that Joan intended on naming the baby completely without his input, which she did not.

"Decided?" She repeated gently, drawing his attention from their daughter to Joan's eyes. "I was hoping it was something we could discuss together." He smiled briefly at her, returning his attention to the baby, and then back to her.

"But you have a name you like, yes? One that you've been etching on the side of text books since your childhood?" Joan smiled warmly at the teasing expression in his eyes. Everything felt so surreal, yet so right, and so complete.

"There is a name I like, one that I have been thinking about for some time. But just as an 'oh, that's nice, it's lovely' type of thing, not a 'this is her name', and I really want it to be a joint decision." She spoke sincerely, before dropping her tone slightly. "I have excluded you from enough already."

"I've told you, Joan, that your apologies and your guilt are unwarranted. I understand." He spoken sincerely, kindly. She looked up at him uncertainly. "We have plenty of time to discuss the events you are referring to, but for now" he gazed down at their daughter, then back to Joan. "There are more pressing matters at hand." Joan smiled as she met his stare, which they both held for several moments. "Which name do you like, Joan?" he asked kindly.

"Evelyn." She stated simply. "I like Evelyn."

There was a brief pause, and Sherlock looked from Joan's face to the baby, his face expressionless, impassive.

"If you don't like it, that's fine, we can discuss others-"

"I adore it." He replied, looking back towards Joan. He sounded confident and sincere, and he was. It was a lovely name, and he felt it suited their daughter to perfection. Joan watched him for a few moments, before asking once more if he was certain.

"I am. Absolutely. Yes." He answered, looking back towards the baby, before parting his lips to speak again. "Would it be possible for me to suggest a potential middle name?"

Joan felt instantly relieved, happy that he was so engaged and happy with this task, which she feared he would find difficult, or unsure of whether she wished him to have any input. "Of course" she began, shifting slightly to hold the baby more comfortably. "Please" she continued encouragingly.

"Jane." He stated simply, looking up to meet her eyes, which were becoming teary, and were swimming with emotion. "It is a beautiful name, I think, and so appropriate somehow." He continued, returned his gaze to their daughter. "She was there for you, she helped you, when I was not able to, when you needed someone the most." Joan was biting the sides of her cheeks slightly, willing herself not to cry. She was deeply touched by this gesture, and overwhelmed with both joy and sadness. But mostly joy. Sherlock continued to speak, meeting her gaze and continuing in a softer tone as he glanced at her reassuringly. "It seems appropriate, somehow."


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock and Joan remained quiet and still for several minutes, staring at their daughter and deciding whether her name suited her. They both agreed that it did, and Joan felt an overwhelming sense of happiness at the thought of her child having a name which was both beautiful and meaningful, to both her parents. Throughout the few minutes they spent gazing upon her, she remained asleep, stirring slightly, before adjusting herself slightly and gurgling quietly. Joan's attention was completely upon her infant, and so she did not observe the kind, curious looks which Sherlock gave them both as they say on his bed, under an array of blankets. He had always found it difficult to articulate his emotions, but this was the most challenging time he had ever experienced. The way he felt about his daughter, his absolute amazement, adoration and the surge of protectiveness he felt for her, could only be likened to how he felt for Joan. Watching her sleeping peacefully in Joan's arms made him aware of his devotion to both his child and her mother. The feelings her had previously held for Joan seemed to be more passionate, more intense, and more protective than he had ever felt before. He was awakened from his thoughts by Joan's soft voice, as was calling his name.

"Sherlock, Sherlock would you help me?" she asked kindly, tiredness evident in her voice.

"Of course." He answered immediately, lifting his head to face her, and sitting up straighter.

"Would you hold Evelyn for me while I change?"

"Yes, yes-" he began, standing up from the bed. "You have spare clothes in your room, I'll bring them to you." She thanked him and he left the room, returning moments later armed with some articles of her clothing, a black travel case, and some of her other possessions. "I placed all of your bathroom articles, nightwear and other possessions in your case, and here are your clothes." He stated, placing them neatly upon his bed. He walked slowly over to her side and she passed the baby over carefully, and he held her against his chest, walking with her to the other side of the room. Although she remained asleep, he spoke to her softly, about a subject that Joan could not make out, as he showed her various items in the room. As he did so, Joan slowly eased herself to the edge of the bed, before slowly placing her left leg over the side, planting her foot firmly upon the ground. As she shifted her body slightly to place her other leg over the side, she suddenly felt a mixture of pain and discomfort, and breathed in sharply, before slowly trying to ease herself forward more gently.

"Joan? Joan what is it?" Sherlock walked around the length of the bed and stood slightly in front of her, holding their sleeping child against his chest. Joan looked up at him, placed her hands by her sides and pushed down upon the bed, rising slowly.

"I'm fine, I just-" she spoke slowly, slightly breathlessly, as she attempted to stand. Somehow foreseeing the next incident, Sherlock moved slightly to the left, and lay the baby gently upon the bed, before moving back towards Joan. She was almost standing, but hissed once more in pain, and began to fall back onto the bed. Sherlock placed his hands under her arms, grabbing her before she fell, and lay her back down gently, before calling for the doctor. The sound of loud steps rushing up the stairs could be heard, and the door opened suddenly. The doctor's figure appeared at the back of the room, and he approached Joan just as Sherlock had lay her gently down. Sherlock placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on her left cheek, drawing her face slowly towards his own. The doctor moved in front of him to take his place, causing Sherlock to move slowly backwards and pick up Evelyn, who was beginning to wake up. She began to cry gently, but was soon comforted by Sherlock, and once again became calm.

The doctor was leaning over Joan, and had moved the pillows and cushions from behind her and way lying her flat upon the bed. Sherlock walked around the other side of the bed and stood by next to Joan, telling her comfortingly that she was going to be okay. Joan opened her eyes as the doctor shined a light into them, before checking her pulse and heart rate. He nodded contently, asked Joan a few questions, then gently eased her into a sitting position.

"You're exhausted, Miss Watson, and your blood pressure is lower than I would like." Sherlock's attention turned from the doctor to Joan, who was nodding slowly.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, I-"

"You have nothing to apologise for, Joan." Sherlock consoled her, the sweet and compassionate sincerity returning to his voice.

The expressed his agreement with Sherlock before slowly seating himself on the bed beside Joan. "Miss Watson, when was the last time you ate?" Joan stared at the doctor for a moment whilst trying to cast her mind back to the day which was almost over. She was overcome by exhaustion and was struggling to remember. She shrugged her shoulders slowly, apologising once more, and stating that she could not recall. The doctor smiled sympathetically, before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You're fine, Miss Watson. You are suffering from the expected discomfort associated with recent events, as well as low blood pressure and exhaustion." He turned to Holmes, who was standing next to Joan with the same concerned expression etched on his face. "She's alright, Mr Holmes, I assure you." Sherlock nodded in appreciation, before seating himself next to Joan.

"I feel fine now, really." She insisted tiredly, pushing herself up further into a seating position and trying once more to ease herself gently from the bed. She felt the same discomfort she experienced earlier, which she knew was normal and to be expected, and slowly placed her feet upon the ground, leant against the bed, and stood up. "Thank you, doctor." She smiled, turning and placing her hands upon the bed, adjusting herself to her new standing position. Sherlock watched her intently throughout, and moved slowly towards the bottom of the bed. The doctor placed a hand on Joan's upper back and slowly walked her to where Sherlock was standing. She felt more conscious and less light headed as she reached Sherlock, and she sifted quickly through the clothing, selecting some new underclothes, and picked up her boots from where Sherlock had placed them. She sat gently back upon the bed and slowly began to dress herself, as Sherlock and the doctor remained in the room, yet took a few paced back to allow Joan some privacy.

Five minutes later Joan was dressed, and after slipping on her boots, she placed the rest of her clothing inside the case, zipped it up, and placed it on the ground next to her. She was about to lift it, before the doctor moved towards her, hand outstretched, and picked up the case. Joan smiled weakly to the doctor, who placed his hand back on her upper back, and slowly walked with her down the stairs. Sherlock followed them both, picking up a small pre-packed suitcase of his own from a cupboard in the kitchen, and moving around the kitchen and placing various other articles into the case, whilst holding Evelyn close to him. He dragged the case behind him, and followed Joan and the doctor out into the cool night air. He noted that the doctor had already put the baby's car seat in the back of the car, and was currently escorting Joan towards the back of the car, and easing her into the back seat. Sherlock followed them outside, deposited his case next to the car, and then secured Evelyn safely in her seat, before turning once more towards Joan. Joan secured her own seatbelt before turning slowly to Evelyn, and placed her hand gently upon her, before stroking her soft hair slowly. Her eyes met Sherlock's, and they stared at each other for a few moments, before Sherlock reached in his hand, placed it on top of her own, and looked at her curiously.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really." She seemed tired yet notably confident, and Sherlock nodded in understanding, before picking up his case, placing it in the car, and sitting in the front next to the doctor. The drive to the hospital was silent and peaceful, and the cool night air and artificial lights flooded through the slightly open windows of the car, which felt refreshing to Joan, temporarily revitalising her. They arrived at the hospital after fifteen minutes, and pulled up in a small car park towards the back. The only light was a pale yellow glow coming from a lamp near the back entrance, which was currently unoccupied. Joan shifted slowly in her seat, before undoing her seatbelt and turning slowly to face Evelyn, whose bright eyes were staring curiously around her new surroundings. Joan undid the seatbelt which was securing the baby seat to the car, and slowly passed the seat out to Sherlock, who had opened the door. Sherlock picked up the seat and held it confidently with one hand, walking across to Joan's side of the car, and offering her his hand as she rose from the seat. The doctor, who was carrying his medical case and Joan's case, stood next to Joan and walked with her slowly towards the building, whilst Sherlock picked up his own case and followed them inside.

The corridors were wide, tiled and smelled slightly of disinfectant. The bright, artificial lights bathed them in a strange, overpowering glow, which caused Sherlock and Joan to squint slightly to adjust their eyes from total darkness to the bright new building. The doctor led them straight through the corridor, where they turned right, before being escorted into an unused suite. The doctor held the door open and allowed Joan to pass inside, closely followed by Sherlock. The room appeared to be square, with a fairly large bed in the centre, two chairs on either side of the room, and various pieces of hospital equipment. The walls were a much less clinical pale yellow, and the bedding was warm and light. There was a single, large window at the front of the room which allowed the inhabitants of the room to look out into the corridor. The doctor assured Sherlock and Joan that they would not be disturbed, as this particular corridor had not been officially opened yet, and stated that no staff were in this part of the building. The bags were deposited onto the ground, and the doctor moved towards Joan, assisting her onto the bed. Sherlock moved towards her, and slowly removed Evelyn from her car seat, before lying her gently in the small cot which was to the right of the bed. He moved the cot close to Joan's side, and angled it so she was able to see Evelyn, who was now wide awake.

"Thank you, doctor. You have certainly gone above and beyond what I could have expected." Sherlock walked towards the doctor and extended his hand, which the doctor held in his own, clasping it tightly.

"It is my pleasure, Sherlock." He smiled, and turned to Joan. "Now, Miss Watson, I will talk you through what we need to think about next." Joan admired the kindness of the doctor, and his approach was one that she recognised from her time as a surgeon: a kindly, professional medic who cared deeply about his patients, and wished to keep them fully informed and fully aware of everything that was occurring. She nodded in understanding, and waited for him to continue. "What I would like to do, if you are comfortable, is to take your blood pressure and heart rate again, just to make sure you are improving. We will hook you up to an IV, but it would be very helpful if you feel able to eat. I know it probably isn't high on your list of priorities right now but, as I'm sure you are aware, you need to build up your energy and strength." Sherlock's focus remained on Joan throughout this conversation, with the latter verbally agreeing with the doctor, assuring him she would follow his instructions and advice. "I also understand that you would both like to keep this stay as brief as is possible, but I must inform you that I would not wish to discharge you both until I have received the results of your blood work, and am completely certain of the health of you and of your baby."

"Evelyn" Joan stated kindly, turning from the doctor to her daughter. "Her name is Evelyn." The doctor nodded, expressed his approval of their choice of name, and turned to leave the room. "I will enter you under false named. Miss Watson, you will be Rachel Reinhardt, and your daughter's name will be Carolein. For the duration of your stay, of course. I will be back in a few minutes, and will bring some clothes for you to dress your daughter in" His eyes twinkled, and he slowly closed the door behind him. Joan leaned back against the pillows, her eyes slowly closing as she felt herself begin to relax. A few seconds later, her eyes opened slowly, and she found herself staring at Sherlock.

"I didn't buy anything." She admitted sadly, as Sherlock adjusted Evelyn's blanket, and moved towards Joan, perching himself on the edge of her bed.

"Buy anything? What do you mean?"

"For her." She spoke quietly, gazing at Evelyn. "I'd walk past stores, see thinks advertised online. I even ordered a catalogue once. But every time I tried to pick something, or saw something I liked, it was..." she struggled to find the words, and clasped her hands together tightly, inhaling slowly. Sherlock remained silent and still, waiting patiently for her to continue. "It was too difficult. Each item I saw, each piece of clothing or accessory, made me feel so much closer to her, made me feel like this was real. This was actually happening." She seemed uncomfortable with the conversation, and began playing with her hands nervously. Sherlock had never seen her so agitated before, and he expected it was due to both her pre-existing concerns, and current medical state, as well her clear exhaustion. He placed his right hand comfortingly over her own, and she ceased her movements immediately. She looked up to him, her eyes shining brightly. "I thought, if I could detach myself slightly, not buy the things that everyone buys, and not spend hours selecting clothing and furniture and books, then... then this would be easier." Her eyes welled up and Sherlock moved slightly closer towards her, squeezing her hand reassuringly as she continued to speak. He was glad that she was able to speak openly about her feelings, and that she was not trying to suppress them. He could not imagine how difficult the past few months must have been for her, and was glad to be shouldering some of the difficulties which she was experiencing. She inhaled sharply before continuing, looking towards Evelyn before turning her head towards Sherlock, although never quite meeting his gaze. "I was so convinced, so certain, that what I was doing was the right thing for her, the only way to ensure her safety. But now-" her sadness disappeared momentarily, and Sherlock saw a smile slowly shine upon her features, and her bright eyes shone with happiness and hope rather than tears. "After what we have talked about so far, after the help we have had, the things we have achieved in the past three hours since she was born, I can't help but think that, maybe" she paused, as if selected her next words carefully "maybe we could make this safe for her. Maybe giving her away isn't the only option we have." She looked directly at him for the first time, and his eyes widened slightly, and gave her a perceptible nod. "And amongst all the maybes, I am constantly taken back to the one thing that I know is certain, that I know to be true. That I should have told you all this months ago, and I am so sorry for excluding you."

Sherlock waited for a few moments until he was certain that Joan had finished discussing what he knew to be something she found difficult to articulate. He understood her concerns, and he fully comprehended her actions. She was trying to protect him and her child, and believed that the best way to ensure the safety of them both was to keep the baby's existence a secret. In this respect, despite feeling confused, guilty and slightly disappointed, he understood her reasoning completely. No one knew about her pregnancy apart from himself, Alfredo and a few medical professionals. She had endured a hellish year, a tumultuous past few months, and an emotionally difficult time recently. He could not even begin to imagine the pain, confusion and sadness which had haunted her constantly. Joan was incredibly organised, intelligent and selfless, and he had no doubt that the decision to keep their child a secret affected her more deeply than he would ever be able to deduce. And he intended to make her aware of how much she and Evelyn meant to him, and how little he judged or begrudged her actions.

"Joan, I assure you" he began, edging forwards slightly and moving his hand between her own, entwining their fingers together, "I understand. I understand what you did, the reasons behind it, and I bear you no feelings of ill-will. You did what you did in good will, with the noblest of intentions, in an attempt to protect not only myself, but our child." He paused briefly, studying her currently calm yet tired face. "And you did. You did, you protected us both, Joan. You overcame several mountainous obstacles, and you helped to make important discoveries in a case which involved a direct threat to us and the wider population. And you did this, because of who you are. Because you care, because you empathise, and because you placed the needs and well-being of others above yourself. And this included the needs and well-being of our child." Sherlock looked slowly towards Evelyn, and Joan followed his line of sight, before smiling sweetly upon their baby. "Look at her, Joan." He spoke kindly, her face turning back to face Evelyn. "She is here because of you, because of your protection. Because of your love." Sherlock paused, considering his next words carefully, and then looked up to meet Joan's gaze. "You perceived several threats to her life, threats which are present now and which are highly likely to be present in the future. And you are right. There are threats, to her, to us, to every person who walks the planet. But yes, to us, the threat is great, more dangerous, more pronounced, and there is nothing more natural than you wanting to shield her from that, and to protect her from those who would wish to harm her." Joan was unable to maintain Sherlock's gaze, and was staring, her eyes glassy and expressive, towards the bottom of the bed. "But there are other options. There are other ways we can keep her safe. On our way over here, I considered three possible and highly plausible ways in which we look after her, and keep her safe." He paused, waiting for a few moments as she turned her gaze towards him, and breathed in sharply. "Is that what you want, Joan?" He asked gently, not wishing to make her feel forced or coerced into a decision, although hoping that she would answer in the affirmative.

"Yes." She whispered, as she once more fought back the tears. "Yes, yes so much." Before Sherlock could speak again, the door behind them opened and Dr Richards re-entered the room. He approached Joan slowly and, sensing the atmosphere in the room, asked if the couple needed a few minutes.

"It's alright, doctor" began Joan, clearing her throat. "It's fine. What would you like me to do?"

The doctor walked slowly over to the left hand side of the bed, and stood next to Joan. He did this purposely, in order to enable Sherlock to retain his position by his side. Sherlock realised this instantly, and was immeasurably grateful for the consideration. "As we discussed earlier, Miss Watson, I would like to retake your blood pressure and heart rate. Now, I will need a blood sample, but given your light-headedness at Sherlock's residence, I brought you these" he placed a selection of food in front of Joan, including two sandwiches, a couple of candy bars, some fruit and various assorted snacks. "Now, if you could manage to eat some of these snacks, it would restore you temporarily, and I would be able to take a sample of your blood, which I will test personally." Joan nodded, her eyes looking over the food. Until it had been placed in front of her, she did not realise how hungry she was, and she reached instinctively for a chocolate candy bar. Sherlock shifted slightly as she disentangled their hands and propped herself up against the cushions. "Now, I would also like to check over little Evelyn again, if it is convenient. Also, I will need to take a sample of her blood, to run some routine tests." Joan placed the partially unwrapped candy bar between her hands, and looked over at Evelyn. She understood that she needed the test, and that the procedure would be over quickly, but the idea of a needle being near her daughter filled her with fear and anguish. She was glad Sherlock was here, as she was certain that he would be supportive and understanding of her concerns. And he was. Within moments of the fears passing through her mind, Sherlock captured her hands with her own, reassured her that the procedure would be quick, that Evelyn would be fine, and probably unaware of the incident. Joan nodded quickly, and gave Dr Richards her verbal consent.

"Is there anything else, doctor?" She asked tiredly, as she slowly drew the foil away from the candy bar, the slight scent of chocolate entering the air.

The doctor reached behind him and picked up a small bag which he had hung on the end of the bed, and passed it to Sherlock. "In the bag are some nappies and clothing, as well as a couple of spare blankets. Should you need anything else, please don't hesitate in letting me know." He turned from Joan back to Sherlock "you have my contact details." Sherlock nodded, picking up the bag and slowly moving from the bed, allowing the doctor to perform the necessary checks.

"Yes, your blood pressure is within the lower end of the normal range, and your heart rate is fine." The doctor confirmed, moving slowly away from Joan, who was once more wrestling with the chocolate bar. She thanked him, and watched as he left the room, before biting into the candy. The taste of the chocolate revitalised her, and she felt more and more awake with each bite. After she finished, the drowsiness soon returned, and she glanced slowly over to Sherlock, who was standing over Evelyn's cot. Nothing could prepare her for the sight which she beheld.

Sherlock was cradling Evelyn gently in her arms, and she was fully dressed in a nappy, vest and white sleep suit, with a cream hat placed upon her head. Joan glanced from Sherlock to Evelyn, and remained in complete awe of them both. In the time it had taken a ravenous Joan to eat a chocolate bar, Sherlock had dressed their baby, and was holding her quite contently to his chest. For some reason, this vision reminded her of the conversation between herself and Sherlock, which occurred shortly before the doctor arrived. As Sherlock placed Evelyn safely back into her cot, and drew a new, soft blanket gently across her, she went through each word he said in her mind, and found herself more reassured of their weight and potential than ever before.

"You're certain we can do this, Sherlock? That we can keep her safe?"

Sherlock looked up from the cot and moved slowly to Joan's side, perching once more on the end of the bed. "Yes." he stated simply, maintaining her gaze and speaking confidently. "There are three possibilities which I can think of, which we will need to discuss and assess. Of course, any of your own ideas would be equally as important." He placed his hand back over her own, and she instantly felt comfort from his warm, consoling touch. "Joan, I assure you, there is a way we can do this. And it is something which we will discuss. But for now, you need your rest. You are absolutely exhausted." She turned to the side slowly before looking back at him, parting her lips and about to claim that she was not tired, that she was fine, and that she wished to continue their conversation. "The doctor will be back in a few minutes to take a sample of your blood. After that, you need to rest, Joan. Physically and emotionally, you are completely exhausted." He spoke kindly and compassionately, concern etched in his voice. She knew he was right, of course. But she needed to discuss Evelyn with him, to weigh out their options and figure out what to do next. "We will discuss everything tomorrow, and we will find a way to ensure that Evelyn's safety and well-being is protected above all else. But this is something we must discuss with clear heads and open minds, and your need for sleep and sustenance is fundamental to enabling that." Again, Joan nodded, realising that he was right.

"I just... I have to know that this is right for her. That whatever we do, whatever we decide, is prioritising her interests and her well-being. We need to hold that well above our own desires." She stated tiredly, as Sherlock slowly moved towards her, placing his hand comfortingly upon her shoulders.

"I promise you, Joan, that is exactly what we will do. But right now, you need to rest. Alright?" Before she could reply, Sherlock had lowered her pillows slightly and was gently easing her into a lying position. He removed her boots slowly and delicately, before drawing her blankets over her, and watching the calmness and serenity of her expression as she finally fell asleep. "I promise you, Watson." He repeated, kissing her gently upon the cheek, then seating himself back on her bed. He placed his hand over hers, entwined their fingers, and remained by her side.


	19. Chapter 19

It was almost as if Joan and Evelyn could sense that a resolution was nearby, as they both slept peacefully, never once even slightly stirring. Sherlock watched her and Evelyn for just under an hour, before slowly easing himself off the bed, and walking into the corner of the room. He stood in the left corner, and made a series of phone calls. First he called Detective Bell, who assured him that Captain Gregson was still improving, and insisting on being discharged, much to the frustration of the medical staff and Mrs Gregson. During this conversation, he was also informed that no further leads had been established in locating ADA Van Kamp, who they was searching tirelessly for. Bell had received a call a couple of hours before Sherlock rang, which reported the finding of charred remains, but these were of a middle-aged male, not the ADA. Sherlock's frustration was clear in his tone, and he asked Bell a series of questions relating to the known associates, friends and family of the ADA, and whether they had been interviewed yet. Bell confirmed that they had been, but were not too helpful. He also revealed that their statements were puzzling and contradictory, with some members of her family and friends portraying her as a selfless workaholic worthy of canonisation, and others describing her as manipulative and cold. Before Sherlock could hang up, Bell asked about Watson, claiming that he was concerned about her as she had seemed very tired when they saw each other briefly at the hospital. Sherlock assured Bell she was fine, and he was ensuring that she was resting comfortably. The detectives ended their conversation, and Sherlock made a couple more phone calls: one to Alfredo, and another to an old contact in England. That latter call was much longer yet more esoteric than the first, and arrived at a satisfying conclusion. Sherlock passed on his thanks and hung up, just as the doctor was entering the room.

The doctor and Sherlock spoke for a few moments, before the latter consented to allow blood to be taken from Joan and Evelyn for the necessary tests. Having been asleep for almost two hours at this point, Sherlock knew that Joan would not object to the test being carried out, but wished her to be aware of everything that was going on nonetheless. He walked slowly to her side and placed his hand upon her shoulder, and whispered her name a couple of times. Her tired eyes opened slightly, and she moved to sit up. Sherlock calmed her, eased her back down onto the pillows, and explained what was happening. Joan, now slightly revitalised yet unaware of how long she had been asleep, consented to the tests, and had drifted back to sleep before the doctor had even removed the needle from her arm. Sherlock watched her intently, in absolute awe of the strength. Watching the doctor take the blood sample from Evelyn affected Sherlock more than he could realise. He understood that the test was to help her, and that she would feel very little pain or discomfort, but his usually quiet and collected daughter began to cry noisily as the doctor drew the blood. Sherlock moved instantly to her side, and felt himself becoming slightly panicked. She had cried briefly after she was born, but it was quieter, calmer almost, and she stopped almost as soon as he wrapped her in her blanket and held her to his chest. But this time her cry was different, louder and distressed. The doctor evidently sensed Sherlock's agitation and assured him that this was quite usual, and that Evelyn was absolutely fine. Sherlock reached out and placed his finger on top of one of her clenched fists, the contact temporarily ceasing her crying. Her red face lightened, and unclenched her fingers slowly, causing Sherlock to feel her small fingers run gently down his index finger. The moment took his breath away, and he remained staring down upon her until the doctor walked slowly to the back of the room, before pausing as Sherlock called across to him.

"Dr Richards, could I possibly impose on you one final time?" He asked, his hand remaining in Evelyn's cot. The doctor nodded curiously, and Sherlock continued. "Once it has been established that both Joan and Evelyn are healthy, it is imperative that I take them to a place of safety at once, whilst I make some arrangements. As yet, I have not had the time to acquire any of the paraphernalia which Evelyn and Joan will require-"

"I will handle it, Mr Holmes, it is no problem at all." The doctor began, and Sherlock nodded in gratitude. "Before I do, there is something I would like to discuss with you."

Sherlock rose his head and faced the doctor, whose calm and kindly faced eased his anxiety. "Evelyn is now four hours old, and as yet she has not eaten. For newborn babies, especially ones who arrive a little earlier than we like, it is essential that they eat. I would wake Miss Watson, but her exhaustion makes me think that it would be best to leave her to rest and regain her strength. Despite her quietness, Mr Holmes, it is highly likely that Evelyn will be feeling hungry. Would you consent to me bringing in some formula, to allow you to feed her? If this is not in accordance with Miss Watson's wishes, Evelyn will not be negatively affected by a change to other means." The doctor explained gently, watching Sherlock's expression. "But I would like Evelyn to eat. Like her mother, she will need to keep strong." Sherlock nodded, looking from Joan to Evelyn, and back to the doctor.

"Yes, of course." He began, meeting the doctor's gaze. "I'm sure Joan would not object. Thank you. The doctor nodded and left the room. He returned a short while later with the formula, and showed Sherlock how to feed Evelyn who, by this time, was gurgling softly from her cot. Sherlock sat in a seat next to Joan's bed and fed Evelyn, who drank impressively, before falling asleep in his arms. He sat like this for four hours, interrupted only once when Dr Richards returned to confirm that the blood tests were fine, and that Joan and Evelyn could be discharged when they were ready, providing that Sherlock would assure him that he would take care of them both and ensure Joan rested. Sherlock willingly assented, thanked the doctor once more, and made another call to Alfredo. Shortly after hanging up, Joan woke from her restorative, dreamless sleep.

Joan opened her eyes slowly, and was immediately met with the sight of Sherlock holding the sleeping Evelyn, who was nuzzled against his chest and wrapped up warm in her cream blanket. Her attention was drawn to the nearly empty bottle of formula which was on a table by the side of her bed.

"Did she feed okay?" Joan asked tiredly, sitting up. "Was she hungry?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, meeting her gaze. "I apologise for not asking you, but the doctor and I were certain you required more rest-"

"Asking me if you can feed our child? There was no need." Joan smiled kindly at him, understanding the reasons behind his apology. "How is she?"

"Fine, sleeping." Sherlock responded dreamily, his eyes case upon Evelyn. "Both of your blood tests have come back, and there is nothing to worry about. Dr Richards says he will check you both over once more and then you are able to leave, when you are ready, of course." He added, not wishing to make her feel rushed into leaving if she was still feeling unwell. "I'm surprised she didn't wake you earlier." He mused, looking from Evelyn to Joan, who was looking at him perplexedly.

"Wake me? When? Why?"

"She was... upset when the doctor took a sample of her blood. I'm surprised you were able to sleep through it, Watson. Her squawking rivalled your own." Joan smiled sweetly, leaning back further into her pillows, and enjoying the sight in front of her. Her smile slowly faded, and her eyes wandered to Sherlock's own.

"What happens now?" She asked, barely above a whisper, as if afraid to pose the question.

Sherlock watched her for a moment, selecting his words carefully. The subject she was referring to had not left his mind at all during his time sat holding Evelyn, and the phone calls he had been making were mainly in an attempt to solidify one of their options, which appeared to be as viable as the others. He breathed in slowly, before looking up to Joan, and responding.

"As we discussed before, there are three options which I have considered, you yourself may have others." He paused as Joan nodded in understanding, her eyes imploring him to continue. "Firstly, we could entrust someone who we trust, someone who we have complete faith in, to look after Evelyn. I have a former nanny who was wonderful to me as a child, and I took the liberty of calling her whilst you were sleeping and, without telling her too many details, posed a hypothetical scenario involving a recently recovered baby belonging to an agent in British intelligence, who required immediate care for an unspecified period of time." Joan nodded slowly, considering the plan in her mind. It seems plausible and very reasonable. It was well thought out and many aspects of the issues they faced had been clearly thought through and accounted for. Joan knew that Sherlock must trust the woman implicitly, and so she did too. Sherlock waited patiently for a response from Joan, who had considered many aspects of the plan, but was struggling with one: how often she and Sherlock would be able to see Evelyn. How she would feel when she was older and discovered the truth, and how she would be looked after in the meantime. The plan was certainly more favourable than any of her own, but it still made her heart ache with fear, concern and love.

"And the second option?" She asked, her face impassive.

"The second, Joan, is more complex, and more permanent." Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair and prepared to reveal the second potential plan. It was one which he had faith in, and knew was possible, but that he was the most concerned of raising. He was concerned because of the position it would put him in, of course, but mainly because of the place Joan would be put in, and the decision it would force her to make. Asking so much of her, and placing such a burden onto her shoulders, was almost more than he could bear. "I could get you out, Watson. I could get you both out."

Joan studied him for a moment, a puzzled expression passing over her features. "Out? What do you mean?"

Sherlock waited for a few moments before responding. It was not necessary, as this was the plan which he had been wording in his head for over an hour, considering the best way to present it to Joan, in a manner which, he hoped, would not pain her.

"I can get you and Evelyn out of this" he gestured with his free hand, before lowering it once more. "I could arrange for you both to be given new identities, passports and properties in a country or countries of your choosing. I would be able to provide access to substantial funds which would ensure the comfort of you both for the rest of your lives. You could even practice medicine again, if you so wished." He paused, watching the confusion which masked her face turn to realisation, and then to sadness. He knew he could not avoid causing her pain, he just hoped to limit it as much as he could. "A woman with a young child in another country would not raise the attention of the people we have worked with and against. With my connections in Britain, America and other countries, I could ensure your safety. Both of you."

"And what about you?" She whispered in a single breath, already knowing the answer.

"My presence would almost certainly attract attention. Our appearance together would make it nearly impossible to maintain false identities." Joan chewed the insides of her cheeks slightly, listening to Sherlock intently. She understood what he was doing, the sacrifice he was prepared to make, for the sake of Joan and their daughter. She knew how much he was giving up, because she herself had battled with the same decision for months. Only it wasn't the same decision. She was considering allowing her daughter to be raised by others to protect her, whereas Sherlock was facing literally twice her own burden. He was considering losing the two people she believed he cared most about, one of whom he had only just met. She had no doubts that their safety could be ensured in such circumstances as Sherlock described, and that all possible scenarios would be accounted for, but it was at such an incredible cost. And one which, they both realised, would be down to a decision which Joan would need to make. He would never pressure or coerce her into making a decision of this magnitude on his behalf, he was simply trying to figure out a way of ensuring their daughter's safety and Joan's happiness, even if that meant that he would risk never seeing either of them again. Joan felt more guilt and more pain than she had ever believed it possible for a single person to feel in a lifetime, and she turned her eyes slowly towards him. He appeared calm, impassive, but she knew that beneath his armour he was breaking.

"Joan, I understand the position I am placing you in, and I cannot apologise enough for doing so." He spoke slowly, gently. Kindness was etched in his voice, and Joan could tell that he was speaking sincerely. "As we stated last night, Evelyn's safety is paramount. It is the main thing we need to base our plans around, and this is one of the few ways we can ensure it, whilst providing her with a stable and loving life." Joan was certain that at this point, in this very moment, she felt her heart break. They were silent for a few moments, until Joan inhaled sharply, and began to speak.

"How could I do that to you? And to her? How could I possibly-" Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat before standing up, and walking slowly over to the cot. He placed Evelyn gently inside, before moving towards Joan and sitting next to her on the bed.

"Joan, Joan I assure you, the knowledge that she is safe, that you are both safe, and protected and happy, is" he paused, his previously written script for this part of the conversation disintegrating in his mind. "is all I would need to continue what we do, to make this a safer place for you both. And there is the possibility of seeing each other, at some point, in some place, in an unspecified amount of time from now." He paused once more, as Joan slowly lowered her head and once more fought back the tears. "But in order to ensure your safety and your cover, our direct contact must be kept to a minimum." Joan breathed heavily, and remained silently for a few moments, before raising her head and meeting his stare once more. The love and compassion which swam in his eyes touched her deeply, and she was in absolute awe of him, of how he was willing to give up so much, for them both. She also knew, from his training of her, that the sacrifice he was prepared to make, and would make, for her and for Evelyn, was something which affected him much more than he was revealing in their present conversation. The thought of his pain and his selflessness filled Joan with guilt and love in equal measure, and she desperately wanted to think of something, anything, that would alleviate his pain, that would figure something out which would not involve the emotional destruction of the man she was certain that she loved.

"And what about the third option?" She asked, her eyes looking at him hopefully. Sherlock nodded briefly, before going into details on the third plan. Joan listened attentively, nodding at intervals, and posing some questions. Sherlock spoke softly and with great care, going over each minute detail of the plan, and filling her in on the input of the individuals who he had been communicating with during the time in which she was asleep. Joan was amazed. Her eyes were wide and shining, and she shifted slightly in the bed, never once breaking his stare.

"You would do that?" she asked, trying to sound confident and composed. "Sherlock, is this what you want?" Sherlock was silent for a few moments, and broke her gaze briefly, looking over to Evelyn and then immediately back to her.

"I want you to be happy, Joan." He spoke softly, gently. "Everything we talked about all those months ago, when you first mentioned your desire to move out, your need for space and for independence, I want you to have that. You deserve that. You were willing to do something which very few people would – you were willing to place your own desires behind the needs of others. And it is time that someone finally gave back to you what you deserve – choice, and a chance at the happiness that you should have." He paused for a few moments, allowing Joan to take in what he was saying. "I have no doubt that you are conflicted, and uncertain of which decision to make. But I want you to know that I will support you, completely and absolutely, in whichever one it is you choose. Please never doubt that, Joan."

Joan was quiet for a moment, watching his expression closely, and believing that he was speaking sincerely. But believing in what you say and realising the long term implications of it are two very different things. And she wondered if Sherlock, despite his genius, was aware of this.

"Sherlock, do you know what you are suggesting?" She asked gently, leaning forwards slightly and meeting his curious gaze. "What you would be giving up?"

Sherlock shifted on the bed, clasping his hands together in his lap, before turning back to her and responding. "I would be losing very little, but acquiring something on a much grander scale. And believe me, Joan, it is something that I have thought through, that I have considered and something that I would do willingly, if it is acceptable."

She maintained her focus upon him, watching him carefully. He sensed her concerns, addressed them fully, and she believed that not only was this something that he was prepared to do, but something he would do willingly, and completely of his own volition. She did not realise at this moment just how much more he would have given up, and how much he would gladly acquiesce to the third option. "Three." She spoke immediately, her voice more confident than it had been in the past few months. "Option three." Sherlock nodded, but was prevented from responding immediately by the re-entering of Dr Richards, who walked slowly towards the bed, dragging a black suitcase behind him.

"Doctor?" Joan asked, her puzzled expression returning. Joan turned around and saw the case, guessing that it contained the items he had requested earlier, and thanked the doctor, before wheeling the case towards Joan and explaining its contents. Joan was deeply touched, thanked the doctor sincerely, and asked how much she owed him.

"Absolutely nothing, Miss Watson, I assure you. As I told you earlier, it is a pleasure to be able to help you both. You all, I should say." Joan smiled kindly, thanking him once more. "I take it that Mr Holmes has informed you that both sets of blood work came back clear?"

"Yes, yes he has. Thank you." Joan replied, sitting up straighter and pushing aside some of the blanket which covered her legs. "Doctor, would it be possible for us to both be discharged soon? If you are satisfied with Evelyn's health?"

The doctor nodded, stating that he was happy that Evelyn was fine. "As are you, Miss Watson" he spoke tenderly. "You certainly appear to be recovering nicely. I will tell you the same I told Mr Holmes, though. You need to rest. You must look after yourself, and allow others to take care of you." Joan agreed, and the doctor approached her slowly. "I would like to examine you and your daughter once more, to confirm my satisfaction and allay any fears, and then I am happy for you to leave. When you feel ready to do so, of course." Joan thanked him once more, and allowed him to check her and Evelyn over. The doctor confirmed they were both fine, and excused himself from the room, assuring them he would be back in a few minutes.

"So what happens now?" Asked Joan, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

"I need to take you and Evelyn to a place a safety. There is a place I own which will be sufficient. One of the conversations I had with Alfredo was regarding this step, and he has consented to meeting us here, escorting us to the place of safety, and remaining there until I return." Joan nodded, understanding the reason for this in relation to their plan.

"Do you think it will take you long?" She asked, trying to conceal her concern. He picked up on it immediately, and tried to alleviate it.

"All I know, Joan, is that no plan can be carried out until the threat of The Couple is extinguished. I spoke with Bell earlier, and something he said struck me. I think we may be closer to solving this case than he realised. And I am confident" he stated, meeting her eyes, "that I can locate the ADA and bring her to the attention of the authorities within a couple of days. After that, I will rejoin you at the safe house, and we will discuss the next steps." Joan nodded in assent, and exhaled slowly.

"I understand." She stated simply, in an attempt to reassure him that she and their daughter would be fine in the meantime. "Is there anything I can do from the safe house? Anything I can-"

"Your only task, my dear Watson, is to recover. You have been through an ordeal, and Alfredo has been instructed to make sure that you rest. Besides, I believe you will have something small and loud to distract you from any work at the moment." He gazed across to Evelyn, who was sleeping peacefully in her cot.

"You know, I can't believe how quiet she is. It seems strange almost, that she can remain so silent, so oblivious to what is happening." Joan spoke in a low tone, yet not one tinged with sadness.

"We should be thankful of it, Watson." Sherlock returned, watching her reassuringly. "It is almost over. We are so very close." Joan nodded, and moved slowly off the bed. She felt revitalised, more energetic and awake than she had done the previous day, and her complete confidence in Sherlock and their plan filled her with hope. For the first time in months, she thought that there was a chance that everything would work out, and that they would all be okay.

The doctor returned a few minutes later to find an alert and awake Joan Watson, who was fully dressed, completely composed, and cradling her daughter. He smiled at this scene, and approached Joan slowly, placing his hand upon the head of the sleeping child. "Miss Watson, Mr Holmes, I wish you all the luck in the world. You too, Evelyn." He smiled, slowly removing his hand. "Please allow me to help you carry your things to the car." Sherlock turned to respond, but was distracted by the beeping of his phone. Alfredo, his usual punctual self, was waiting outside in the car. Sherlock thanked the doctor, and they carried their possessions through the corridor and towards the car, where Alfredo helped to load them into the trunk. Joan held Evelyn's carrier tightly, and gently eased it into the back of Alfredo's car, strapping her in safely, before sitting in the seat next to her. Sherlock moved to the front of the vehicle, took up his seat in the passenger side, and gave Alfredo the address.

The car journey lasted for just under twenty minutes, during which time Evelyn became restless. She was not crying, but not was she content. Joan tried to soothe her, talking to her gently and stroking her hair carefully, which eventually placated her. By the time she was asleep again, Joan looked out of the window as the car came to a stop. They were at a medium-sized cottage, surrounded by grass and woodlands, and completely alone. Sherlock opened the door for her and helped to release the car seat, as Joan got out the other side of the car and walked across to pick up the car seat from Sherlock's outstretched hand. Their fingers touched briefly, and they each felt the same connection they had experienced all those months ago, and several times since. Joan moved to pick up one of the cases with her free hand, but was prevented from doing so by Alfredo, who carried it with apparent ease towards the building. The cottage was painted a light colour, had a dark, tiled roof and several large windows. It smelt clean and fresh, and reminded Joan of a ski trip she went on with some friends in college. As you stepped into the cottage the layout was open plan and very inviting, with the walls painted a creamy yellow and the floorboards light brown. There was a living area to the immediate right, with two large white sofas, a coffee table matching the floor, and a large fireplace. To the left was the kitchen area, and the room reached back quite far, to reveal a large dining area and storage closet. There were a set of stairs against the far right wall, which led to the bedrooms and bathroom. The place was idyllic, and Joan instantly felt at ease upon entering.

"It's wonderful, Sherlock." She stated, lifting Evelyn from her seat as Alfredo carried the bags upstairs. "Is it yours?"

"It belongs to my father." He stated simply, moving towards the fireplace and throwing in some logs, before adding some coal and lighting a match. "He used to come here with my mother, many years ago." Sherlock spoke without facing her, his attention upon the fire. Satisfied with his efforts, he walked towards her and stood a few inches in front of her. "No one knows about this place, you and Evelyn will be quite safe here, I assure you. Alfredo will protect you both, and so will I." He spoke confidently, and Joan recognised and almost admired this trait. She believed him, too.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She stated, as he moved closer towards her.

"I will be back as soon as I can. I will be reachable at all times, and will work as quickly as I can." He stated, just as confidently as before. "You are both quite safe here, Joan. I assure you."

"It's your safety I am concerned about right now." She spoke quietly, adjusting Evelyn's blankets. Sherlock looked upon the face of his sleeping daughter, and then back to Joan.

"I assure you, Watson, I will be fine. This will all be over very soon." Before she could respond, the sound of Alfredo's steps descending the stairs drew Sherlock and Joan from their conversation.

"Thank you, Alfredo. I trust everything is to your satisfaction?" Sherlock asked, turning his head slightly to face his sponsor.

"Yeah, it's fine, Holmes. Don't worry, I'll take good care of them." 

"Of that I have no doubt." He stated, turning from Alfredo to Joan. "I will be back in no time at all." he leaned forward slightly, and kissed her gently upon the cheek, conscious of the sleeping child between them. He then bent down, and kissed Evelyn tenderly upon her forehead, before placing his hand upon her head. He stayed in that position for a few seconds, before drawing himself out of his reverie, reassuring Joan, and departing. Joan did not move from her position until ten minutes after she could no longer hear the sound of his car travelling down the dirt road. She then placed Evelyn back in her car seat and carried her upstairs, intent on sorting out the bedroom, cleaning the kitchen, and doing absolutely anything else that would distract her.

Sherlock arrived back at the brownstone forty minutes later, driving a long route to ensure that he was not followed or traced back to his parents' cottage. He slowly unlocked the door, and walked inside. The corridor was dark and cold, and he rubbed his hands together before slowly removing his scarf, placing it onto the coat rack, and undoing his buttons as he walked into the living area. Before he could turn on a light switch, he was alerted to something different in the room. Something was different, there was something different present. As he slowly flicked on the light switch, he could hear the scuffing of heeled shoes upon the floor as someone stood up from a seated position on the couch.

"Mr Holmes." The ADA smiled, her figure bathed in artificial light as she stood not ten feet in front of Sherlock. Sherlock undid the remaining button on his coat, greeted the ADA civilly, and threw the coat onto the sofa.

"What do you want, Miss Van Kamp?" He asked, facing her confidently.

ADA Amelia Van Kamp raised her right hand from her side, revealing the gun she was holding. She pointed it directly at Sherlock, and smiled brightly at him.

"You, Mr Holmes." She replied, a sinister edge penetrating her usually sweet tone.


	20. Chapter 20

Amelia Van Kamp smiled seductively, raising the gun slightly and holding it steadily in her left hand. Sherlock scrutinised her closely as she edged closer towards him, until they were standing just inches apart. His face betrayed no emotions, and his impassive features and steely glare unnerved the ADA slightly. She had no expected crying or pleading, but certainly more of a reaction than she was receiving. She saw nothing in this whole encounter which demonstrated his fear, which confused her. She was usually so quick to pick up on these things. She had to be.

"You know, I almost thought that you'd never discover who I was. What I was doing." She tilted her head to the side slightly, tucking some hair behind her right ear. "Tell me, Sherlock Holmes, what gave me away?"

Sherlock cast his gaze down to the ground before facing her directly once more, staring at her confidently, the scent of her expensive perfume swimming in the air. "You did, Miss Van Kamp. I saw through you almost immediately. All that tosh about your love for the DA, a clear fabrication, and poorly created. This seemed to suggest that you made it up quickly, out of necessity, I should imagine. The file which was on the DA's desk would have been the final nail in your coffin, he would have worked it out. You knew he was suspicious, I imagine you found out about his own private private investigation, if you understand my use of the term, and this alarmed you. You realised that the only reason he would be mounting such an investigation without your knowledge would be because he suspected one or more of your members of being complicit in the very act he was investigating. He didn't realise how close he was though. One more file, and he would have known. He would have recognised the name, searched the archives, and found out about you. Initially, I suspect he would have considered your connection to be much less... direct than it actually was. He would have considered you to be just another of the moles." He paused for a moment, watching her closely for a reaction. "He could not have possibly contemplated just how involved you were, that you were actually a member of The Couple. If he had a chance to read the file before you killed him, I expect he would have thought you to be a mole, called you in for a clandestine meeting, interviewed you, and given you the opportunity to turn yourself in." Sherlock nodded rapidly, rolling back slightly on his heels, before clasping his hands together behind his back. "Jack was a very kind man, kinder than most in his position, and he would have done anything he could to help you. But he never had the chance, did he?"

The ADA smiled, lowering the gun slightly, and walking back a few steps.

"Once I realised that he was investigating us, his team, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was exposed. He was no Sherlock Holmes, I tell you, but he was bright. Very perceptive, very experienced. He would have suspected something, and he would not have stopped. He would have compromised everything." Her previously animated features darkened, and she surveyed Sherlock with a sinister stare. "I could not allow that to happen. I knew he was getting close, and that he was reviewing some files which posed a risk to my operation, so I intended on removing them from the office. Unfortunately, I did not have the time. The security guard reacted quicker than I anticipated, and two dead bodies would draw more attention than one." Her tone was even yet markedly callous, and Sherlock was almost surprised that this woman had kept up her deception for so long, adopted a totally different persona, which she had presented to the world so convincingly.

"And your partner?" Sherlock asked after a few moments of silence had passed.

The ADA smiled, raising the gun once more, so that it was directly in line with his eyes. "He served his purpose, and his contract was terminated." She spoke with the same callous edge as she had previously, danger twinkling in her eyes.

"Ah, yes, killed him too, did you? Judge Ligardo?" Sherlock's voice adopted its usual animated tone, and he leaned back on his heels once more, staring from the ceiling back to the ADA, who could not conceal her shock, although she recovered quickly.

"Yes. Again, how did you know?"

"The first time you came here, I suspected something." Sherlock began, maintaining her gaze. "You arrived at almost the same time, quite strange considering you work at opposite ends of the city. The way he moved to sit close to you on the couch betrayed your intimacy. The four of you were meeting with the DA under the most dangerous and secret of circumstances, you would not have met up outside of these arrangements in a social context, it could have drawn attention to your work with the DA. And yet, Ligardo sat remarkably close to you, you even had to adjust your seating position four times." The ADA watched him with interest, nodding slowly. "Also, the way he looked at you. He cast you short glances throughout most of the meetings. At first, I assumed that it was some kind of romantic attachment, but I quickly realised otherwise. Mr Ligardo was in a long term relationship with a male colleague, they were quite serious, so it was unlikely you had a romantic relationship. Once you rule out social and romantic, there are very few options remaining. Also, I was informed by the police earlier today that the charred remains of a man fitting the description of your late associate had been found in the search for you. It was not a great leap." He stated, staring hard at the ADA, who chewed her bottom lip and nodded, clearly impressed.

"Very good, Mr Holmes. But can you tell me why? A man as clever as you, as remarkable as you appear to be." She waved the gun in the air to punctuate her sentence, before returning it to its original position. "What did I gain?"

"You gained, Miss Van Kamp, what we all seek to gain. You gained money, power, an international reputation, but more than anything, you gained something which few seldom search for." He moved his hands from behind his back, and made a gesture as he continued his sentence. "You gained fear. The fear of individuals, the fear of the city, even. But most importantly, the fear of the high-ranking officials who doubted you. Who condemned your clients, who accepted faulty or flawed evidence, who were, in your opinion, weak. But more than that, they were defiant. You are an incredibly talented and highly intelligent woman, and you expected adoration, power, and profound success. You blamed your colleagues and others for your own personal failure, hence the vendetta. You remained undetected for quite a while, but it was never going to succeed in the long term. Your plan was inherently flawed." 

"Oh yes? And why was that?"

Sherlock stared at her for a few moments, before speaking once more. "Because it involved the destruction of the individuals who protect the world from people like you. And those threats to order are always defeated. Just as you have been."

"Defeated?" She smiled, staring at him with interest. "Mr Holmes, I am holding a gun to your head in your own home, I would not say that I am defeated in the least."

"Another inherent flaw, Miss Van Kamp." He stated simply, temporarily diverting his gaze from her own. "You assume that the fact you have a weapon means you have won. It does not, you have not. Your identity is known, you are being searched for, and you will be located. And that will happen regardless of what passes in this place at this time." He spoke solemnly, yet with an air of notable confidence.

The ADA removed the safety from the gun and rose it slightly more in the air, so it was aimed at his forehead. "So what do you suggest I do now?" She smiled, as she moved slowly around him, never facing away from him, until her back was to the kitchen area.

"I suggest, Miss Van Kamp" Sherlock began, turning to face her. "That you duck."

Within a moment, Mycroft grabbed the woman from behind and forced her left arm into the air. A shot was dispelled from the gun, hitting the ceiling, and she was disarmed. Mycroft then led her into the kitchen, forced her to sit on one of the chairs, and pointed the gun directly at her. He then rose his free hand and pressed 'dial' on his cell phone. Less than a second later, the thudding of footsteps on both sets of stairs could be heard, and the room was flooded with MI6 agents. Sherlock turned to the ADA and watched as anger and hatred contorted her features. His thoughts went immediately from this woman to the DA, the police, and all other people who had worked tirelessly to defeat her. And he smiled, losing himself in the victory, but only for a moment. Mycroft left the woman's side, passed the gun to an agent, and approached Sherlock. "Thank you for the call, brother. Much appreciated." He stated, shaking Sherlock's hand.

"Not at all, Mycroft. Glad you could make it." He leaned back on his heels, before facing his brother directly and bracing himself for the next conversation. "Mycroft, there is something we need to discuss." He began, as his brother cast him a curious glance. "It's about Joan."

An hour later, Joan and Alfredo were sat by the fireplace in the cottage, comfortable seated on opposite sofas, Joan cradling Evelyn, who had fallen asleep in her arms. She and Alfredo had been discussing recent events, and Joan spoke very openly and very candidly regarding her pregnancy and her original plans for her child. She felt that she owed it to him, after everything he had done. An explanation was not necessary, though. Alfredo adored Joan and trusted her implicitly, and the thought that she had acted dishonourably or callously had never once entered his mind. Or Sherlock's, for that matter.

"You know, I still can't quite believe she's here." Joan said, looking down at Evelyn. "It doesn't seem real somehow. I never expected this."

Alfredo glanced from Joan to Evelyn before responding. "She is wonderful, Miss Watson." He smiled, before continuing. "And she is lucky to have you and Sherlock." Joan smiled politely, thanking him.

"Yeah, well, let's hope she feels the same one day. Some day." Her eyes fell to Evelyn.

Their conversation was cut short by some movement from outside. Joan glanced up at Alfredo, who had already risen, and had his gun in his right hand.

"Miss Watson, take the baby upstairs. Stay there until I come for you."

Joan nodded rapidly, holding Evelyn tight to her chest before standing as quickly as she was able, and making her way towards the staircase. Before she could ascend, the door opened slowly. Alfredo rose his weapon and breathed in deeply. Joan turned around instinctively, cradling Evelyn, and trying to make out the figure who was standing in the doorway.

"Joan? Is everything quite alri-" Sherlock paused upon entering the room, as he walked in and was standing just feet away from Alfredo's gun. "Oh do put it down Alfredo, I've had enough of that this evening."

Joan smiled, and walked briskly over to Sherlock, who walked forward to greet her. Before either of them could speak, another figure entered the room.

"Mycroft was instrumental in ending this saga, Joan." He stated in a hushed tone, as Alfredo greeted Mycroft, who had entered and closed the door. "I told him everything, about you, about us, about Evelyn." Joan felt her stomach clench, and a wave of nervousness overcame her. She glanced over Sherlock's shoulder and held Evelyn closer to her. Sherlock looked down at Joan, checked on Evelyn, and then began to speak once more. "It's all fine, Joan. He's fine. In fact, he would love to meet our daughter." Joan nodded uncertainly, before walking across the room to greet Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled at her, kissing her chastely on the cheek, before looking down at Evelyn. He stared at her for a few moments, before raising his head at the sound of Joan's voice. "Would you like to hold her?" Mycroft met her gaze and nodded, removing his coat and placing it on a chair by the breakfast bar. Joan carefully passed Evelyn over to him, and he held her gently. She helped him to support her head and readjusted the blankets, before walking slowly to Sherlock's side. Mycroft watched Evelyn sleep for a few more moments, rose his head, and congratulated Sherlock and Joan. "Just what the world needs" he began, focusing on Joan and Sherlock, "another Miss Watson".

"Actually" Joan began, turning slowly towards Sherlock, "I was hoping she could be Miss Holmes." Sherlock stared at her for a moment, unable to speak or to move, simply gazing deep into her eyes. "It's just... I thought... considering what we are going to do, her identity will not need to be kept a secret. We don't have to hide our connection to her in order to protect her." She paused, looking up to him for a reaction, anything. She was beginning to worry slightly, which was evident from a slight change in her tone when she continued speaking. "And I would love it if she could have your name. I hoped you would too." Sherlock remained quiet for a few more moments, before moving his lips slightly, and beginning to speak.

"Joan, I..." he paused, looking up to her. "Thank you." Joan and Sherlock shared a look, before breaking into beaming smiles.

"Holmes it is, then." Stated Mycroft, raising Evelyn slightly higher in his arms, much to Joan's concern. "To Miss Evelyn Jane Holmes. May she had a lifetime of love and happiness."

"She will." Sherlock responded immediately, his eyes moving slowly from Joan's to Mycroft's, before focusing on Evelyn. "She will."


	21. Epilogue

The plan itself was relatively straightforward but well thought out, with major changes in the lives of those involved, which led to the uniting of a group of individuals in protecting a little girl who captured their hearts.

In the hospital room, Sherlock had explained to Joan the third plan. The plan itself was something he had come up with in the hope that it would appeal to Joan, as well as prove an effective way to protect their child.

"It will involve great changes Joan, for both of us." He had began, as Joan sat in her hospital bed, alert and wide awake after her previous sleep. "You and I would leave not only the city, but the country. The brownstone, our daily lives, everything would need to change." Joan nodded understandingly, her eyes willing him to continue. To her, these were perfectly acceptable terms, and ones she would consent to in a heartbeat if it would ensure the safety of their child. "I told you earlier about a nanny I had when I was younger. She was actually the eighth nanny I had, and I was entrusted into her care shortly before my eleventh birthday, my antics having led to the resignation or firing of previous staff in that capacity." Sherlock paused for a moment, reflecting briefly upon the past experiences. "Her name was Emilie. She is fifty three now, a wonderful woman. She is a former British intelligence officer who was active during the Cold War, during which time she became associated with my parents. The work of my parents and various other relatives during this time placed Mycroft and myself in imminent danger, and so she protected us. She remained with us for five years, until the threats were allayed, and I credit her with having saved my life on no less than six occasions. Which I know of, at least." he paused, looking up from his hands to Joan.

"I understand, but what does she have to do with us leaving?"

"As I told you earlier, I placed a call to her earlier this evening, whilst you were resting, and discussed with her, in veiled terms, the need to protect a child whose parents were in the secret service. I also told you that she consented to protect this child. What I did not tell you, is that in the same phone call I posed a slightly different plan, the same one, in fact, I had discussed with Alfredo shortly before."

Joan nodded encouragingly, watching him with eager anticipation.

"Emilie and Alfredo both consented to my proposition, and would be prepared to join us immediately, if you consent." He paused once more, and Joan nodded, shifting slightly in her seat.

"You and I would leave New York within the next few days, with Evelyn, and we would not return for any long period of time. In fact, we would not establish ourselves at any location for a particularly long period of time. We would travel, Joan. We would continue with our work, but on a much grander scale. We could travel the world, work on international cases, and live on multiple continents." He paused for a moment, aware of how fantastical this idea sounded at first. "I assure you, Watson, this is more plausible than it sounds. I have several properties in many countries, and access to the funds to purchase or rent more. And this is not taking into consideration the finances we acquire from our work. And tell me, Joan, how many emails and phone calls do we get from Argentina, or England, or Denmark, asking for our assistance?" Joan nodded slowly, commenting that it was certainly a lot. "And we had to turn them down because of our location, because of our living in New York." She nodded again. "But what if we didn't have to turn them down? Didn't have to merely glance at the file, offer some small observations, and rebuff the offer. What if we could travel and solve them?" Joan still seemed slightly uncertain, and her mind was overflowing with questions and concerns.

"And Alfredo and Emilie? How do they fit in?"

Sherlock nodded once before continuing describing his idea. "Emilie would consent to looking after Evelyn, and would be able to play a key role in her education, as would we. We could teach her ourselves, as well as enlisting the assistance of tutors, to develop her general skills as well as the ones which reflect her own interests. She would be able to have the most incredible, hands-on education which a child could desire. She would experience the world, Joan, she would be living in it rather than existing. As we would be moving constantly, and our location would not be able to be predicted or ascertained with any degree of certainty which would place her in danger, it would be perfect. We would not have to hide her identity, or our relationship to her. We could live with her, Joan, amongst the good and the bad." He paused for a moment, allowing Joan to consider his suggestion.

"I never wanted to hide her." She began sadly, looking up from her clasped hands to Sherlock's eyes. "But I see what you mean. She would be safe, and she would be with us." She smiled briefly, before staring at him confidently. "But can we be certain?"

"In the company and guidance of two consulting detectives, a former secret service agent and an Alfredo-shaped bodyguard, how could she be safer? Where else could she be in the world, and who could she be with, who could ensure her safety, development and happiness as we could do by offering her this kind of a life? A life where she has the freedom to travel, to learn and to love. And where she will know, each moment of every day, that she is loved." Joan was touched, and deeply moved by this. She was aware of just how much Sherlock was willing to give to protect Evelyn, and how much Emilie and Alfonso were also prepared to offer.

"We could do this?" She asked finally, the confusion returning to her features. "We could actually protect her, continue our work, and watch her grow up?" Sherlock nodded quickly, moving closer to Joan.

"Yes. All this is possible, Joan. But, as I said, Evelyn's safety and your contentment with whichever option you believe to be the most fitting, is paramount." Joan smiled and nodded, before questioning his certainty and his own happiness further, then selecting this option.

The plan was discussed in the cottage that evening, although all parties present already knew. Mycroft and Sherlock had discussed Evelyn with Sherlock's father, as well as revealing their current dilemma, and their father had, shockingly to Sherlock, supported his son. Not only had he verbally agreed with the plan, but he had wired a considerable sum into his bank account, and instructed his son to allow Miss Watson a say over what was to happen to the funds. Also, he stated his intention to open an account for his granddaughter, in order to provide for her. Sherlock had thanked him, and ended the conversation promptly, baffled by his response.

It was arranged that the group would remain in the cottage for a further three days, to allow Evelyn and Joan a few days to recover. Mycroft would then depart, fly to England and collect Emilie, who he would escort to the country of Joan and Sherlock's choosing. Alfredo would remain with them, as would two MI6 agents who Mycroft had left sitting in a car out front, until they were ready to leave. The following day, Evelyn's birth was officially registered, and Sherlock was able to ensure the fast-tracking of a passport for her. Three days after this, they found themselves on a plane to Holland, where they would rent a small property in Amsterdam whilst Joan recovered fully, and Evelyn was able to thrive, before they embarked on their journey. Which, it has to be said, exceeded the expectations of all parties.

The group remained in Europe for the first year, returning to America occasionally, before travelling much more broadly in later years. Joan was keen to keep Evelyn in as normal a routine as possible, which, she realised, was problematic with this lifestyle. But they managed it. Sometimes Sherlock would fly out alone to handle a case, and sometimes Joan would. When Evelyn was five, and able to handle such trips better, they visited Africa, Australia and Asia. Evelyn developed a close bond with Emilie, who adored her unconditionally, and took on the role of a governess from an early stage. Evelyn was, as could be expected, exceptionally bright, and showed signs of impressive intelligence and perceptive skills from a very early age. These were overshadowed only by her remarkable grasp of medical knowledge, demonstrated once where, after falling and knocking himself unconscious in the kitchen of their Roman villa, Alfredo was nursed by a three-year old Evelyn, who attracted Emilie's attention to the incident before holding a cloth to his head and lying next to him on the ground. Sometimes it was the bodyguard who was guarded. Which was just as well. The bond between Evelyn, Emilie and Alfredo was unbreakable, and stronger than could have been anticipated. The love her parents had for her was complete and unconditional, and they ensured that their work did not take them away from her for long, and if something would require close and constant attention, one would remain with Evelyn, the detectives alternating the days to allow a fresh perspective on the case, and to give Evelyn the opportunity to spend time with both parents.

Joan and Sherlock's relationship remained complex and mysterious. They maintained their deep, platonic intimacy, and their closeness which was unrivalled. Occasionally, their relationship adopted traits which would classify them as lovers, their intimacy moving beyond the platonic. The fact that their relationship could not be categorised or defined or explained only strengthened it, and their love for each other and their daughter flourished during their lifetime.

One warm October evening in Lisbon, when Evelyn was five, Sherlock and Joan sat on the balcony of their apartment, staring out over the ocean. The air was warm, but not as stifling as it had been. The sound of the waves gently crashing onto the shore added to the peace which they had obtained that evening, after the closing of a case involving a blackmail plot and a scandal-hit politician. They remained on the balcony for several hours, talking about a variety of subjects until the sun had set, and darkness began to descend. The current topic of conversation was Evelyn, and her impressive progress in languages. She was currently fluent in three.

"I am so glad we were able to do this, Sherlock." Joan smiled, placing her iced tea on the table as she leaned back slightly in her chair, adjusting her dress slightly. "This time six years ago, the thought that we could have her, have this" she rose her hands slowly, before placing them back in her lap, "did not seem possible. I was so certain that she would be in danger, that she would not be safe, that I almost lost her. We almost lost her. Without you, Sherlock, we would not have everything we have right now. All our aspirations and achievements are embodied in our daughter, and you did this. All of this." She smiled contemplatively, as she glanced curiously over to her companion, who was unusually quiet. As she glanced over, a rectangular object which he had just placed on the table attracted her attention. She leaned in closer to examine it, the darkness creeping over the balcony, although she already guessed at what it was. It was the framed picture which she had brought him to celebrate the one-year mark of his sobriety. The framed excerpt from the poem stood upon the table, and seemed to shine brightly through the darkness, as did the message it included.

"And to think, Watson." He began, before repeating the sentiments he revealed on the night of their daughter's conception. "It is only just beginning."


End file.
